


pointed on both ends

by lord_is_it_mine



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Season/Series 04, Blow Jobs, Cannibalism, Dark Will, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Flashbacks, Fugitives, Hand Jobs, Hannibal Rising References, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Plotty, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance, Silence of the Lambs References, Slow To Update, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:08:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5055175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lord_is_it_mine/pseuds/lord_is_it_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've never known myself as well as I know myself when I'm with him.</p><p>(one could argue <i>intimately<i></i></i>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. surfacing

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! So. I do have a plan for this whole story. I know exactly where it's going, I'm not just floundering around in the depths without a plot. That being said, I don't have an updating schedule- I'm just really excited about what I've got so far and it always motivates me to write more when part of it has been posted. I expect the chapters to be shortish and the entire thing to end up at around 10k words, but. Sometimes these things get out of hand. Also the title is a little???? for me but it fits well enough for now so it might change but idk.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we can't look back for nothing / take what you need say your goodbyes / i gave you everything / and it's a beautiful crime

_It is a well-known fact that saltwater in its purest form promotes healing when applied to open wounds. However, saltwater that has not been purified contains harmful bacteria that causes swelling and irritation in the wound track that can lead to further infection of the injury._

"The healing powers of the ocean are undeniably well-rooted in the human spirit; the cycle of life and death itself represented in the constancy of the tide. How could the souls of man not long to truly know the eternal bond between the moon and sea?"

This is the first thing Hannibal says to Will after they have miraculously washed ashore and expelled what water and blood is left within their lungs.  It has been barely minutes since they fell, and yet Will feels as though a lifetime has passed.

The spray of the cresting waves is bitter and cold on Will's skin; it invigorates him, to have expected death and instead received its opposite.

Now that he has been given the chance to think about it in retrospect, he is unsure whether he pulled Hannibal over the cliff for the sake of inevitable justice, or in the spirit of shattering teacups- hoping that in another life, the pieces might pull themselves back together. Or maybe he really couldn't save himself.

_Maybe that's just fine._

"I suppose it's rare that the souls of men ever do," he answers Hannibal's question, his eyes straying out over the deep blue horizon. "We must be lucky."

Hannibal laughs- or rather, he lets out a single breath- a huff that, had it come from anyone else, would mean annoyance. But coming from Hannibal, it almost sounds like hilarity.

_This is all I ever wanted for you- for us._

A hitch in Hannibal's next breath pulls Will from the lofty headspace of their conversation and back down to the blood-soaked beach where they sit.

"How bad is it?" He doesn't dare look- he's not entirely sure he won't see the black blood of the wendigo oozing out over Hannibal's battle-worn hands.

"Are you inquiring as to the severity of my injuries or the severity of my pain?"

"Both." Will notes that Hannibal's voice is a little pinched at the edges- he is on his way to gritting words out through his teeth.

"Pain is a gauge; a neurological response to physical trauma. It is a warning that the body is in trouble- a reminder that the body yet lives. The brain can be trained to tolerate such warnings with lessened discomfort. Unfortunately, the body cannot be trained out of sustaining damage."

This makes Will turn his head- he finds no thick black blood of the wendigo; only the moonlit black blood of The Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal holds a hand over the gunshot wound in his side, the skin of his knuckles paling in contrast.

_It's beautiful._

Will had looked at the destruction they had wrought together, the final becoming of The Great Red Dragon, a consummation of their own courtship, and he had felt _immortal_. Now the blood is a startling reminder of how close death truly is to killers such as them.

"Jesus, Hannibal." The expletive rings reminiscent of a different self; the one part of him that is not Hannibal's, if such a part can truly exist- the remaining limb, as it were, free of their conjoined consciousness.

The wound itself is clean, in a manner of speaking. One shot to the abdomen, the bullet passing mostly through soft tissue. Obviously no punctured lung, or there wouldn't be much of a conversation going on at this point. Will's overly capable imagination falls headlong into the realm of vital organ damage and internal bleeding, and he completely forgets about his own shoulder as he reaches reflexively to cover Hannibal's hand with his own.

Hannibal doesn't miss Will's grimace of pain, which in turn leads to a hiss of discomfort when his facial muscles pull at the deep cut in his cheek. He focuses on this to ease his own suffering; what a lovely scar it will leave on Will's face. Will notices him staring and isn't put-off by it in the slightest.

 _How far we've come_.

"You don't happen to have a way out of here, do you?"

"Tell me, Will- when you pulled us both over the cliff's edge, did you plan on needing one?"

Oddly enough, Hannibal doesn't sound bitter; he is, as always, proud of the strategic and devious mind that he has cultivated within Will- even when it could have meant both their deaths.

"You seem completely okay with the fact that I just tried to kill you." Will does a quick count of all the times they've tried to kill each other or tried to have each other killed and sighs. "I don't know why I'm surprised."

Hannibal chooses this moment to stand. Or try to, at least. He betrays himself with a pained hiss; Will gets to his feet and offers his uninjured arm, supporting Hannibal's injured side.

"I forgive you," Hannibal whispers as they begin to stumble down the beach.

"You said that once already." Will walks carefully, his feet sinking into the wet gravel and throwing him off balance with every step. "It was just before you cut into my head with the intention of eating my brain, as I recall. Where are we _going_?"

"Just a little farther," Hannibal grunts. The pain must be getting worse as the adrenaline wears off- Will can attest to that.

"We all fall short," Hannibal carries on. "When God sent his son to die for the sin of man, all of man's transgressions were forgiven; past, present and future. I forgave you once, so I forgive you forever."

"There but for the grace of God go I," Will mutters.

When he looks up from the treacherous ground, he finds that a dock has emerged from the gloom. His eyes have adjusted so well to the moonlight that he can make out every misshapen board as the dock rides out the midnight tide. There's no boat, but there is a shed further up on the grassy swell of the shore, a narrow service road winding off into the darkness beyond. He's guessing there's a vehicle of some sort in the shed.

"You were prepared to kill us both." Hannibal's voice is close in Will's ear, heated by his laboured breaths. "You said once that you were curious if we could survive separation- what conclusion did you come to before you chose _not_ to push me over the edge alone?"

"Can't live with you, can't live without you," Will replies, still staring at the shed, how the trees behind it frame it in its importance. He looks back at Hannibal, their foreheads touching  with how Hannibal's head rests on Will's shoulder.

" _Can't live without you_ ," Will repeats. He means it.

* * *

 

**_Three Days Post-Fall:_**

 

They say there are two sides to every story.

Really, it's more like three:

His, hers, and the truth.

When Molly Graham is told that her husband has gone missing (presumed dead, last seen in the company of an infamous cannibalistic serial killer), that stupid old joke is the first thing that pops into her head.

The second thing is Will's voice, quiet and confessional-

_"If I go, I'll be different when I come back."_

_If you come back at all_ , she amends him in her mind.

Jack Crawford gives her a sympathetic (if forced) look, and assures her for the second time today that the FBI will do everything in its power to bring Will back. He doesn't specify what state Will is going to be in when they do.

Molly tells him to go shove it up his ass. She can hear Will laughing in agreement, the sound bite locked away somewhere in her memories with the sepia tones of the time before Hannibal Lecter- for _her_ , that is.

She's always done her best not to wonder what Will must have looked like in his proverbial before picture. She's certainly never asked, and he's certainly never said. She told herself she didn't need to know. She told herself that having whatever was left of Will after Hannibal Lecter would be more than enough.

She knows now that Will must have been telling himself something very similar.

His side. Her side.

The truth is that both of them were wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Summary: [Beautiful Crime - Tamer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iMq3lQFFHFw)
> 
> [come visit me on tumblr for more Hannibal related shenanigans!](http://www.danascullays.tumblr.com)


	2. he said, she said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MURDER HUSBANDS ELOPE: HONEYMOON FROM HELL ITSELF  
> MURDER AND MAYHEM MEET IN THE MOONLIGHT  
> Cover Story by Freddie Lounds

**_Six Days Post-Fall:_ **

 

**_TATTLE EXCLUSIVE:_ **

**_MURDER HUSBANDS MISSING  
_ ** _Murder husbands turned dragon slayers! Dragon's corpse left behind, husbands nowhere to be found._

 **Editorial Feature:** _Freddie Lounds, Special Report_

Freddie looks at the headline, repeated ad infinitum across the shelves of the food court newsstand. Her shoulders slide back as she unconsciously puffs her chest, ego inflating to the point where it might actually lift her into the air. She's been smelling a book deal since she penned this article, and now she can almost _taste_ it. She can already see the posters- _MURDER HUSBANDS: THE MOVIE_. Of course, she will _eventually_ have to come up with another title, something to keep the masses interested. _Cannibals In Love_ , coming to a theatre near you. Eat your heart out this December!

A satisfied smile works its way onto her cherry-painted lips. The mall really is the best place to come for inspiration (and affirmation).

Her phone buzzes in her pocket. It's a text from her editor; sales on this issue of _Tattle Crime_ are already through the roof. And it's officially five-oh-one; she could feasibly be off the clock.

That means a bubble bath and a glass of wine to celebrate yet another successful story.

* * *

 

"If you'd already branded us _'murder husbands'_ , isn't the eloping headline a little redundant?"

Freddie hasn't even turned on the light yet before the familiar voice breaks the comfortable silence that comes when one thinks they're alone in their own home. She stands silhouetted in the doorway, the hallway light bleeding into her darkened apartment.

She puts on the best _'I was completely prepared for this situation'_ face that she can conjure up under the circumstances. She closes the door, turns on the light and thanks the journalism gods that she was born with the gift of not cracking under pressure.

Will Graham is sitting in one of her twelve hundred dollar Italian leather armchairs, a copy of the latest _Tattle Crime_ in his lap,flipping through the pages with one hand. His other arm is in a sling.

Watching Will read about himself is a little surreal- and worrisome. She thought he was dead when she wrote that article. She's been told she doesn't have much respect for the dead.

"Will," Freddie greets. "It's good to see you- _alive_." She looks around, belatedly checking to see that they're alone. She makes sure to keep her back to the door, hoping that if Hannibal was going to jump out and grab her, he would have done so by now. _Is it rude to ask someone if they broke into your apartment just to kill you?_

"Where's Hannibal?"

"He's dead."

Will tosses his copy of _Tattle Crime_ onto Freddie's coffee table, the leather of her armchair squeaking quietly as he stands. When he turns, Freddie sees that the sling isn't the only injury he's sustained from his rumored tumble off the bluff- there's a stark white strip of gauze taped to the side of his face. _Ouch_.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," Freddie lies- she knows Will knows she's lying. She hopes he takes it as a peace offering if not as her genuine condolences.

"You're readers won't be," Will shrugs as best he can with the sling, turning his head to look out the tall windows behind him. Freddie reaches into her coat pocket and thumbs her cell phone.

"There'll be dancing in the streets," Will continues. Freddie stops short of trying to blind-dial nine-one-one.

"He's not really dead, is he?"

"Not really, no," Will looks back at her, an eerie mirth in the set of his shoulders and the quirk of his smile. "But that's what you're going to write."

Freddie cocks her head patronisingly, taking her hand off her phone. "Now, Will, you know I can't just go around writing stories without credible sources."

"It's never stopped you before," Will scoffs. He rounds the armchair; Freddie can't tell if he means to attack her, but she's pretty sure she has an arm up on him right now.

"You can quote me," Will offers. He reaches into her coat pocket and snatches her phone, which has been recording the conversation since _'-going to write'_. Will holds the phone up to his mouth, unnecessary but for dramatic effect and says, "Hannibal Lecter is dead."

He presses stop on the recording and tosses the phone behind him. It lands in the armchair, on the other side of him- _way_ too far out of reach. Freddie forces herself not to panic- and then, always one to bargain- she gets an idea.

"How are you planning to _make me_ write this? What's to stop me from printing the opposite? Or even better, what's to stop me from taking a fresh approach to the Murder Husbands Saga? I'm sure my readers are _dying_ to know what it was like, playing house with one half of America's favourite killer couple. I don't know if Molly would warm up to me right away, but then- _everyone_ has a price. So, I'll ask plainly- what's in it for me?"

She half expects Will to snap, but then remembers that silent anger is really more his thing. One look in her eyes tells her that he's a seething mass of it right now- but he keeps it well disguised; the camouflaged coils of a snake ready to jump out from the long-grass where it hides. He steps up to her, toe-to-toe, her back still firmly pressed against her front door.

"That's your problem, Freddie." _Among other things_. "You think you're still in the position to ask for anything other than what I'm already allowing you to have."

There's a quiet edge to his words; the kind of unspoken confidence that people only have when they are doubtlessly sure of themselves.

"What are you allowing me to have?" She thinks she already knows the answer.

"Your _life_."

He blows past her then. Though she doesn't feel his hands on her, she's been wrenched away from the door, closer to her phone but without a prayer of getting to it before he either jumps her or bolts from the apartment.

"You're not going to kill me," she says. Her voice doesn't shake, but her knees feel a little boneless.

" _I'm_ not." Will turns his back to her, hand already on the door handle. Freddie raises her hands slightly, out of self defence or surrender it isn't clear. She begins to back slowly toward her phone just as Will opens the door.

"He has a list, you know," Will tells her, his face in profile when he half-turns to look at her over his shoulder. "And as tasteless as he finds you, I don't think you're on it. But he knows that I despise you even more than he does. And if I have even _half_ as much influence over him as your witty moniker for us suggests, I just might be able to get you on that list. Or keep you off of it, as the case may be."

Will doesn't close the door behind him. Freddie stares at the hallway floor for a solid five minutes after he leaves.

The next thing she does is call Jack Crawford.

"Jack, Freddie Lounds."

"I have nothing to say to you." He sounds exhausted and pissed off. She's probably gonna cost him a few more hours sleep- oh well.

"No, but I have something to say to you." She finally closes her door, locks it, and goes to check the locks on every single window in the place.

"Hannibal Lecter is dead."

"Tell me something I don't know," Jack huffs.

"Will Graham isn't."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Tattle Crime (also known as The National Tattler) headlines from this chapter/chapter summary!](https://twitter.com/tattle_crime/status/637822210653097984)


	3. omniscient third

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh i'll use you as a warning sign / that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind / and i'll use you as a focal point / so i don't lose sight of what i want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unedited, which is to say there are probably some typos/verb tense snafus. I will come back and fix them but for now I just wanted to get this chapter posted!

**_Four Days Post-Fall (Past):_ **

 

Bedelia Du Maurier hadn't had many visitors lately. She had all but shut down her practice, favouring the book tours and seminars that now kept her pockets well-padded. It seemed there was no end to the public's fascination with serial killers and their mistresses. Even if she never qualified for that title in the strictest sense of the word, it had not stopped her from making a killing of her own.

She wondered if Molly Graham would ever learn to take advantage of the role in which she had been so unwittingly and unwillingly cast.

With the news of Hannibal Lecter's escape and the authorities' subsequent failure to locate him, Bedelia found herself expecting her first visitors in some time. In fact, she was sure to receive more visitors in the next two weeks than she'd received in months. The question was which visitors would arrive first.

So when a knock came at her door in the middle of the night, she was the least surprised that she had ever been.

"You're late," she said, abandoning her usual custom of peering out through a barely opened door. "I expected you days ago." She swung the door open wide and stepped away, a cold rush of air invading her home just as she knew Will Graham would shortly do as well. He didn't move. That was when she noticed his injuries. He had clearly been to a hospital- she wondered how many stitches there were beneath the layer of gauze on his face.

"Yeah, well- we got a bit sidetracked," he explained.

"Where is Hannibal?" She asked.

"Resting," Will answered. He looked at her, around her, as though he could see her thoughts floating in the air over her head. "I was going to threaten you into helping us, but you've probably considered all of your options by now and come to the same conclusion I have; you're more likely to survive if you do what I say."

Bedelia saw it in him then; the same near-desperate ferocity that a wild animal displays in trying to protect its wounded mate.

"I anticipated that I would be first on Hannibal's list of house calls if he were ever to escape imprisonment. Once I heard of his escape, I realised I had very few options to consider. I believe there is little to no chance of survival now, no matter what I choose to do."

"So if you're sure Hannibal is going to kill you, you figure you might as well make sure yours isn't the last life he takes."

"Essentially."

"Good," Will nodded; he turned and marched swiftly back the way he'd come. Bedelia crossed her arms over her chest to ineffectively shield her body from the cold and followed him down into the driveway. There was a white delivery van of some kind parked there- the nondescript logo was half veiled in shadow.

"I take it the Dragon is dead," she guessed.

"Ding dong," Will affirmed distractedly, hauling the sliding door open with his free arm. The half of the logo still visible was lost into the darkness. When the door opened, the internal light came on, illuminating the empty bench seat within. Bedelia started-

"Where-"

Bedelia was interrupted by the sharp pain of a syringe being jabbed into her neck. She felt the warm wave of unconsciousness rise up to meet her mind just as her body fell to meet the cold hard ground.

"That was unnecessary," Will muttered, shooting an unimpressed glare at Chiyoh. "She was going to help us."

"Until she had the chance to escape or betray us to the police." Chiyoh didn't argue with Will so much as correct him; arguing would have implied that this was a matter of opinion. She bent down and began to drag Bedelia's unconscious body back toward the house.

Hannibal came around the back side of the van, favouring one leg over the other. His eyes were slightly glassy with sleep and no small amount of painkillers, Will knew. Hannibal looped an arm around Will's waist as Will watched the odd scene unfold before them.

"I know you may not be fond of her, but you must admit; it is fortunate that she was looking out for us."

"Fortunate that she reads _Tattle Crime_." Will returned the one-armed embrace and guided Hannibal up the driveway. He shouldn't have been that surprised that she waited around in Baltimore for three years. She was alone in Lithuania playing jail keeper for something like two decades, all at Hannibal's behest. He knew that half the reason they were still alive was because of Chiyoh's unwavering loyalty to _(read: obsession with)_ Hannibal, but he couldn't judge her for that- _let he who is without blame cast the first stone_.

"She pushed me off a train. And she _shot_ me." He could most definitely judge her for that.

"And I cut you open and left you to nearly die on my kitchen floor," Hannibal reminded him as they reached the front step. "And you forgave me for it. Who can say what is right for one is right for all? The things love drives us to do may be justified to us and madness to others."

_Is Hannibal in love with me?_

Will stopped them walking, the arm around Hannibal's waist sliding down until he could press his hand flat to Hannibal's hip. Hannibal leaned closer until his forehead touched Will's, until they breathed the same breaths and felt the same heartbeat in each other's chests. Intermingling.

_Could he daily feel a stab of hunger for you? And find nourishment at the very sight of you? Yes._

_But do you ache for him?_

Yes. A this moment, he ached to kiss Hannibal- his mouth felt bruised with the need for it.

Chiyoh appeared in the doorway. Will would not have known she was there but for the fact that he could _feel_ her glaring at him.

"Doctor Du Maurier will be unconscious until midday tomorrow," she informed them. Will let out a frustrated huff, breaking eye contact with Hannibal. Hannibal only looked from Will to Chiyoh and back to Will, amusement plain on his slightly battered face.

"I believe we should take the liberty of cancelling her appointments and engagements for the foreseeable future," Hannibal suggested.

"I should be able to access her email account," Chiyoh offered. She then reached out to Hannibal, taking hold of his sleeve and softly pulling him away from Will. Will knew she didn't _neccessarily_ mean it that way in the Freudian sense- the act itself was child _like_ , but it was anything but child _ish_. Will could not help but feel a distinct absence of something significant within himself the moment his physical contact with Hannibal was severed.

"You need to rest," Chiyoh told Hannibal; he went willingly, though no one present doubted that she would have carried him to bed if the situation called for it.

Will was the last one in the house. He looked over his shoulder once out of habit before he closed the door behind him.

* * *

 

**_Six Days Post-Fall (Present):_ **

 

Hannibal rarely dreams- but in his injured sleep, body fighting to heal itself while the mind slumbers, nightmares come easily.

He has always been the stuff of nightmares; a monster, fanged and bloody, a predator to those who least expect his cruelty. It would be intriguing to some and frightening to most to know what the devil fears- what horrors visit him behind closed eyes?

He dreams of the night he left Baltimore for the last time as a free man. Will, vulnerable to his touch, still drawing closer though he no doubt suspects what will come. The knife, cold and curved in Hannibal's hand, carving sweetly through Will's skin, sculpting him into whatever image Hannibal desires. Will's shaking body in his arms, broken sounds of pain, final words of a man on the brink of transformation.

This is where the nightmare begins:

_Did you think you could change me?_

_I already have._

_Abigail, come here._

_No, please-_

Abigail's life draining from her throat once again, Will powerless to save her, Hannibal's hands steady as he delivers her fate.

_Aannibal! Annibal!_

Abigail falls; her dark hair becomes golden, stained brassy with blood. When her body rolls, the face that gazes up at him with empty eyes is not Abigail's face at all.

_Annibal! Annibal!_

Will's face, contorted in agony, becomes a garish smile of pride and disdain.

_It's beautiful._

With all the strength his last heartbeats allow, Will lashes out, kicking Hannibal's feet from under him. The darkened kitchen shatters, shards of chrome and steel that give way to the moonlit bluff.

Hannibal falls; he falls alone. His body crashes and breaks into the waves, which in turn crash and break into the shore.

The nightmare repeats itself. Most times he ends on the shore, broken to pieces of sea glass, bones whittled away like driftwood in the tide.

Occasionally, its worse.

Occasionally, Hannibal survives.

He wakes up in his cell; bed and toilet seats and books and all the cursed half-measures of this irrational society. He wakes up to find that Will is gone, never to return, having taken all memory of Mischa with him.

More terrible still, Will is there, taunting him- looking at Hannibal through the glass, head tilted patronisingly, speaking words that were once of adoration.

_It's beautiful._

* * *

 

It's well past sunset by the time Will returns from Freddie's apartment. He parks the car (which he jacked after he got rid of the van) in Bedelia's driveway and hurries inside. He wasn't seen leaving and he isn't seen arriving- the people in this neighbourhood are the non-nosy kind of affluent people, far more concerned with their own sordid lives than with the lives of others. It helps that the properties are fairly big and surrounded by trees- makes for better privacy.

He finds Chiyoh in the guest bedroom, sitting in one of Bedelia's chairs and reading one of Bedelia's many volumes on clinical psychiatry. Judging by how frequently she's turning pages, he's guessing she's read it before. What else does one do with their time when they're waiting around for their childhood friend and or surrogate sibling to somehow spring himself from a state hospital for the criminally insane?

Bedelia herself is still passed out on the bed- she's been in and out of it all day, aided by whatever drugs Chiyoh stole from the hospital pharmacy before they made their getaway. Will still doesn't think the whole 'constant sedation' thing is imperative, but Chiyoh disagrees; and Chiyoh has all the medicine.

"Get her up," Will says. Chiyoh's head turns as if to show that she's heard him, but she doesn't take her eyes off the book. "She needs to be conscious and sober-ish as soon as she can be."

"Why?"

"If my plan worked, which I'm betting it did, we'll be getting a visit from an old friend of mine. I need her to not let him in."

"Are you luring the FBI here on purpose?" Chiyoh doesn't sound scandalized, surprisingly enough; she sounds somewhat interested in this plan Will has hatched.

"Freddie's going to call Jack, to tell him I'm alive. He's going to run down every known person Hannibal and I have in common. That's going to lead him here first. If Bedelia can convince him that she hasn't heard from me, and that she doesn't want his protection, he'll go, and even if he has probable cause to suspect that we're here, we'll be long gone by the time he comes back with any kind of warrant."

"That-" Chiyoh looks like she's run out of words. "That could work. It could also fail horribly."

"As is the case with everything I do," Will shrugs. "Is Hannibal awake?"

"Last I checked, no. And you shouldn't do anything to change that."

Will doesn't acknowledge her suggestion; he leaves her with her books and her medicine and turns back down the hallway to the master bedroom.

He hasn't slept in the bed yet. He hasn't really slept at all; he's half-slept  in a half-sitting position while holding vigil in the armchair he pulled up next to Hannibal's side of the bed. While Will's barely been sleeping, Hannibal has barely been awake; the painkillers make him drowsy, and the body heals faster with more sleep anyway. Maybe that's while Will's shoulder still hurts so much.

The light is off in the bedroom, but the on suite bathroom light is on, the door ajar. This leaves a definite stripe of warm light that cuts across the floor and onto the bed. It bleeds a little at the edges, allowing Will to see everything else.

Hannibal is asleep on top of the covers, on his back, one arm at his side, the other bent over his chest at the elbow. His face, turned towards Will, looks troubled. Will carefully removes his sling and jacket and then begrudgingly puts the sling back on (only one more day until he can take it off for the last time and then proceed to immediately _light it on fire_ ). When he sits down, he notes that Hannibal's face still hasn't settled. He tentatively reaches out, some instinct telling him to smooth out the worry lines etched on Hannibal's forehead-

Hannibal startles awake, body jolting once with the realisation that it is too injured to sit all the way up. Will snatches his hand back like he's been burned, but not before Hannibal gets his wrist in a vice grip.

"Hannibal, it's me, it's just me," Will coaxes.

" _Will_." Hannibal's fingers relax around Will's wrist, but he doesn't let go; he presses the back of Will's hand to his mouth and holds it there. Will pulls free after a moment, only to trace the pad of his thumb along Hannibal's lower lip.

"Were you-" Will somehow can't believe he's about to ask- "were you having a nightmare?"

"Of sorts," Hannibal whispers, and that's all the detail Will needs. He doesn't want to know what Hannibal has nightmares about- not right now. Right now, he wants to lie next to Hannibal, to curl up by his side and sleep there until the FBI and Freddie Lounds' adoring public forget that he and Hannibal ever existed.

He can at least do part of that.

"Move over," he says. Hannibal does so without much difficulty, taking the other side of the bed so that Will can lie down on his uninjured shoulder and still be facing Hannibal. He gets as closed as he can without touching- their faces are the closest to each other by far, barely two inches apart. The bed is warm where Hannibal has been lying- it doesn't smell entirely like him though, so Will omits that part of the experience from memory. He sees the way Hannibal is looking at him and decides right then and there never to forget _this_ part.

_If I saw you everyday forever, I would remember this time._

"I went to see our friend Miss Lounds," he says. It almost feels like blasphemy to be talking about someone as pedestrian as Freddie Lounds when he'd lying in bed with Hannibal. The fact that they're clothed and on top of the covers makes it a little less sacrilegious.

"What did you tell her?"

"That you were dead. She didn't believe me, but I also told her I'd have you kill her for me if she didn't write it like that. I think it's safe to say she believed that part."

Hannibal laughs, Will would say drunkenly if he didn't know any better.

"What?"

"It makes me exceedingly happy, Will, to hear you say that you would have me kill someone for you." Hannibal is smiling like a spoiled child on Christmas morning, and Will can't stop himself from smiling back.

"How much morphine did Chiyoh give you?"

"Just enough. Tell me Will, would you ever say to me "Stop. If you loved me, you'd stop"?"

Will doesn't hesitate.

"Not in a thousand years."

Hannibal moves forward and kisses Will, softly and slowly, a far cry from anything Will had ever really imagined. Will kisses him back and curses the day slings were invented- he wants both hands free to roam, to learn the sharp lines of Hannibal's face and the perpetual grace of his shoulders.

"People will say we're in love," Hannibal murmurs against Will's lips.

"Aren't we?" Will pulls back enough to see Hannibal's eyes, hooded in the almost-darkness but still unable to hide a single thought.

_Is Hannibal in love with me?_

"What I feel for you cannot be defined; it is not love as defined by any mortal thought, nor by any gospel, but by the gods themselves. I love you by the way I would burn entire cities to the ground and kill a thousand men, if it meant that nothing would ever take you from me."

Will finds himself unable to answer- he kisses Hannibal again and hopes that this is answer enough.

"Why me?" He wonders, breathless.

"You saw me, Will; even before I allowed you to see, you saw. You saw me as no one has ever seen me- no one has ever seen me as you have and not turned away." Hannibal is still tired, Will can tell; he slurs his words, blinking slower and longer with every passing second.

"You did not turn away," Hannibal sighs as he falls back to sleep, "I could never find another like you."

Will falls asleep shortly after. Neither of them find any nightmares waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My writing soundtrack for the last scene between Will and Hannibal (as well as the lyrics in the chapter summary): [I Found - Amber Run](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yj6V_a1-EUA)
> 
> Curious as to how Hanni and Will survived (and apparently got medical treatment)? Patience. Also bear with me on my non-linear timeline. Just remember; a little backtracking never hurt anyone. All will be revealed from the appropriate points of view and the appropriate time in the story. My medical knowledge is limited but my dear old dad is a first aid instructor and also had a bad shoulder when I was a kid all I know is the sling keeps the arm immobilized so the shoulder muscles don't tear/sustain further damage. I picked a week as the arbitrary length of time for this but I have no idea how long one would actually have to wear a sling for an injury like that if they would have to wear one at all.
> 
> "Annibal" is the little kid way of saying "Hannibal". It's how Mischa (Hannibal's dead sister if you weren't aware) said Hannibal's name in Hannibal Rising (I can't remember if it was the book or the movie it's been quite a while since I read or watched either of them but I seem to recall it happening I could be wrong but oh well). SUPRISE I was wrong it's "Annibal" not "Hanniba" I went back and fixed it.
> 
> "People will say we're in love" is something Hannibal says to Clarice in Silence of The Lambs. The "Would you ever say to me 'stop'... not in a thousand years" part is also spoken between Hannibal and Clarice in the Hannibal movie (2001). Normally I wouldn't take lines from one paring and use them for another, but I will make an exception here because they're great lines! Also Hannibal/Clarice is not at all a thing in this canon or this fic. And Bryan Fuller appropriates lines from the Harrisverse all the time ("If I saw you everyday forever, I would remember this time" is also something Hannibal says to Clarice) so really I'm only continuing the great tradition.
> 
> P.S. Just a friendly reminder from your (thirsty af for love) author: kudos are great, comments are better!


	4. mo(u)rning rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So it’s true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love.”  
> ― E.A. Bucchianeri, _Brushstrokes of a Gadfly ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember those minor/background relationships in the tags? Here they are. This is furthering of the plot- I promise we'll get back to the real stars of the show soon enough (there was another scene for this chapter with Will/Hannibal but it's not done and I wanted to post /something/ before the end of 2015- so that other scene will be in chapter five).

**_Seven Days Post-Fall:_ **

 

**_NEWPORT, RI. 6:08 A.M._ **

Margot Verger wakes up alone in an unfamiliar place; she's been growing accustomed to this unfamiliar place, which means this place will soon cease to be unfamiliar at all. What wakes her up is the being alone. That, and the raised voice coming from the bathroom. She rolls over, squinting at the morning light invading easily through the wispy curtains. Coastal mansions are all very well and good, but she's never known anything but heavy curtains and dark wallpaper.

So much about this is new. Not so much of it is exciting.

The clock says early. Too early.

She hears the voice in the bathroom drop off suddenly, and that makes her more curious than the shouting had.

When she crosses the room and peaks through the sliding bathroom door, what she sees is equal parts disconcerting and endearing. Alana in her pyjamas, bed head and all, pacing the tile floor with as much authoritative glory as she would have in a pantsuit and stiletto heels. Margot feels that same rush of possessive affection she always has at times like this, to know that she's the only one who gets to see the undone (but no less powerful) side of Doctor Alana Bloom.

"Jack, you can't be serious," Alana all but hisses, one hand planted firmly on her hip, the other in a death grip on the phone.

Margot slides the door open; the noise makes Alana jump- she relaxes when she sees Margot, who offers an apologetic smile. This type of exchange is something Margot has grown accustomed to- ever since Hannibal Lecter's planned escape hadn't gone as planned, Alana has been unusually on edge, more anxious than Margot has ever seen her. That's why waking up alone this morning was so unusual- Alana has been sleeping poorly as of late, holding onto Margot all hours of the night should she be pushed through a window in her nightmares.

"Asking her to do that would not only be an exploitation of her relationship with Will, but it would put her at risk... yes, I _do_ think he would." Alana resumes pacing, purposefully crossing the room again and again; it's her way of diffusing the frustrated energy she would be taking out on Jack if she were actually in the room with him. Now _there's_ something Margot would pay to see.

"We don't know what kind of mental state he's in. _If_ Freddie's telling the truth, which is a _big_ if, he could be in the throes of a psychotic episode- a full break from reality." She stops pacing, thoughtfully tilting her head as she listens to whatever Jack is saying. Margot can't make out the words, but she can hear the undertone of his voice- he sounds tired, just this side of exasperated. Alana's shoulders are tense when Margot puts her hands on them- she brushes Alana's hair to the side and lets into the knotted muscles with her thumbs. Alana sighs, though her next words aren't nearly so relaxed.

"And if Freddie's lying? If Will is trying to misdirect us? Obviously he's not thinking rationally. And if Hanni-" Alana's voice snags on the name; it comes out of her mouth disjointed, like a bone found in fish- "if he _is_ alive, what's to stop him from removing every threat to his control over Will?" A pause. "No, I don't see a better course of action, but that doesn't mean I condone-" she shakes her head at the interruption. "Yes, I would, if you insist on going through with this. Yes. That won't be a problem. Yes. Goodbye, Jack."

Alana ends the phonecall, sighing and pinching the bridge of her nose. Margot stops massaging her shoulders in favour of wrapping her arms around Alana's waist, resting her cheek on Alana's back and listening to shallow but slowing rhythm of her breath.

"Will's alive. He broke into Freddie Lounds' apartment last night and told her that Doctor Lecter is dead." Alana avoids the unpleasantness of the name with unnecessary use of formality. "But he hasn't come in or tried to contact anyone else."

"Jack wants to hold a press conference," she whispers, as though it was too despicable a thing to even speak aloud. "He wants Molly Graham to ask Will to turn himself in. Jack's getting desperate- three years ago, he never would have-"

"Three years ago, Hannibal nearly killed both of you. You've done a better job of moving on than Jack has." Margot spins Alana by the hips, smoothing the hair from her face and kissing her softly on the forehead. "I'm guessing I need to get the jet out here, huh."

"I don't think I've done as good a job at moving on as you, Jack, or anyone else thinks I have," Alana says in place of _'yes'_. "If he's going to do this- if Molly agrees to it, I'm not going to let her do it alone. I'll be safe, I'll sleep in Jack's office if I have to-"

"You don't have to convince me." Margot kisses Alana again, this time on the mouth; Alana's lips tremble with emotion, humming with the strength Margot knows she possesses.

"Now, let's have a shower. It's not a long flight to Baltimore, and there's no way I'm letting Jack have you a single second before I'm ready to let you go."

Alana kisses her again, and Margot all but forgets how reassuring she meant that to sound, and how final it actually seemed when she said it.

* * *

**_FBI ACADEMY, QUANTICO VA. 9:18 A.M._ **

Clarice Starling stands in front of the sink in her shoebox of a dormitory bathroom, staring at herself in the tiny medicine cabinet door mirror. She's already pulled her hair into a ponytail twice and pulled it out of said ponytail just as many times. She sighs dejectedly at her appearance, her breath blowing a wayward strand of dark hair from her cheek and fogging up her sleep-deprived reflection.

The door swings open; in walks Ardelia, hair still wrapped in a towel atop her head, t-shirt sticking to her shower-steamy skin. Starling looks at her with a question in her eyes, one that Ardelia reads as easily as she would if it were written out on paper.

"Just put it up," she advises, craning her neck so she can rest her chin on Starling's shoulder. "You won't be totally happy with it, whatever you do; at least if it's up you won't be tempted to fiddle with it every second you're in Crawford's office."

 _Crawford's office_.

The class at the FBI Academy is a select group to begin with- an even _more_ select group will be chosen for minor positions on the Lecter task force. Crawford's doing the interviews himself. Starling can't figure out why the Bureau is even _considering_ using trainees for such an important case, even if all they'll be doing is manning the tip hotline and making boatloads of coffee for the senior agents. As much as she knows it could be a way in with the BAU, she _also_ knows how difficult it can be for a woman to make a name for herself in a boy's club like the FBI if she gets pigeonholed as a secretary from the start. Even in this day and age.

"You've met him. Tell me he's not as bad as they say he is," Starling says, never taking her eyes off those of her own reflection.

Ardelia snakes her arms around Starling's waist- Starling can feel Ardelia's body heat through her FBI sweatshirt. She would have preferred to wear something nicer to the interview that could be the first step in her illustrious career as a profiler. But the interviews were announced last minute; and as luck would have it, it's laundry day. Even the sweatshirt she's wearing now still smells of the outdoor firing range; grass and gunpowder and the light rain that was coming down all day yesterday.

"He's not as bad as they say he is." Ardelia squeezes Starling's waist in what _would_ be a purely reassuring gesture were it not for the familiar mischief rising in her eyes. "He's _worse_."

"Ardelia-"

"Well, if you're really _that_ stressed out, I know a great way to help you relax," Ardelia offers, murmuring playfully into the space below Starling's ear.

There's a killer on the loose. Starling is on the verge of being late to the most important meeting she's ever had; her only clean clothes are questionably clean at best, her hair is refusing to behave, and all she can think about is how good Ardelia's mouth feels on her neck.

" _Damn_ it," she sighs, reluctantly breaking out of the embrace and pulling a hair elastic from her wrist. "Later. Definitely later."

"You're damn right." Ardelia smiles fondly, watching Starling pull her hair back again and rush into the bedroom, grabbing her windbreaker from the back of her desk chair as she goes.

"We'll celebrate tonight, after Crawford puts you in charge of his task force," Ardelia hollers as Starling rushes out the door.

Starling laughs and breaks into a jog down the hallway.

* * *

**_BAU OFFICES, FBI HEDQUARTDERS, QUANTICO VA. 9:23 A.M._ **

Molly Graham still hasn't cried. She stands alone in front of the mirror in the first floor ladies' room at Quantico and tries to summon up some sort of facial expression appropriate for the situation at hand. All she can manage is slightly jetlagged.

It's been four days since Jack Crawford told her that Will was missing. When Walter's father died, she started crying on day one and didn't stop until at _least_ day five. She thinks back to her days in grief counselling (something she never thought she'd have to do again after she met Will), and recites the five stages in her mind.

_Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance._

It's different with terminal cancer; death is the inevitable outcome, so the grieving process starts before they even dig the hole. Molly had sailed through the first three stages and was well into depression by the time her husband was in the ground. Now, it's like she can't even summon up the energy for denial, let alone anything else.

They say that everyone does the stages of grief differently, that the set order isn't neccessarily the set order, and each one has no specific time frame. Molly's mind is apparently trying to shake things up; it seems she's sailed right through to acceptance without a single tear.

Walter is in Oregon with his grandparents; so was she, up until yesterday, when Jack Crawford called to tell her she needed to get on the next plane to Virginia (flight and hotel paid for by the Bureau, of course). She's been wondering since she got off the phone just what was so important that she had to leave her son and fly half way across the country for- too important for him to just tell her on the phone.

On the plane, she stared at the back of the seat in front of her, having decided not to watch the in-flight movie. Instead, her imagination projected a dozen unseemly images on the blank screen- most of which involved sterile rooms and black vinyl body bags. The dead husband thing is unfortunately familiar, but the identifying the body part of the experience is brand new. The worst part of her sense of humor is a little grateful to the universe for at least being a little creative.

She remembers Jack Crawford showing up, at the beginning of the end. She remembers thinking that he must really want something from Will if he came all the way to the backend of nowhere USA. And now here he is, flying her out here and putting her up in a hotel that's far nicer than anything the federal government probably forks out for under other circumstances. Either he feels bad for taking Will away from her, or he's looking to talk her into giving up something else.

 _So_ , she thinks, her bone-dry face as expressionless as the bathroom wall- _what could that something else possibly be?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've had several moments of inspiration, and this plot is taking on a life of its own; I feel like I'm writing a whole season four of the show! (Sorry it's been a million years since the last chapter my life is literally ridiculous). Also remember when I said this thing was gonna be ~10? lmaoooooooo buckle your seat belts kids- we're just getting started.
> 
> also, my tumblr has changed: [cannibalempath.tumblr.com](http://www.cannibalempath.tumblr.com)


	5. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> now i am strong / you gave me all / you gave all you had / and now i am whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The missing scene from chapter four, a.k.a. a little break from the plot (in which the way hannibal sucks dick is a religious experience).
> 
> Chapter summary (& song du jour): [My Love - Sia](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mtM_cc4SPJI)

**_Seven Days Post-Fall:_ **

 

**_BALTIMORE, MD. 9:23 A.M._ **

Will wakes up of his own volition, which is immediately surprising; he had expected Chiyoh to barge in hours ago, to chastise him about waking Hannibal up and moving him across the bed when he should be resting. Or, more importantly, tell him that Bedelia is up and Jack is at the door.

Instead, he blinks awake slowly, looking for Hannibal as soon as he's conscious enough to consciously look for anything. Hannibal is right where Will left him- sleeping, turned slightly toward Will, face a calm sea of emotionless peace. Will leaves him like that and goes to take a shower.

Chiyoh has gone out since they arrived, as evidenced by the small stockpile of supplies in the on-suite bathroom. There's toothpaste and toothbrushes, still in their packaging- two stacks of clothes, neatly folded on the counter next to the sink- all the clothes are similar, but one pile is clearly for Hannibal- it's the pile without denim. Will wonders for a moment where she bought them- he wonders if she stole them, but then sees the bags from the nearest department store wadded up in the trash can. He can't wait to find out what Hannibal looks like in clothing that isn't boldly fashionable and tailored within an inch of its life.

Will showers quickly and pulls on a brand new pair of dark jeans- they _fit_. That raises even more questions until he remembers that Chiyoh has that uncanny ability to do just about anything without flaw if the situation calls for it.

Hannibal enters the room just as Will finishes brushing his teeth. Hannibal leans on one shoulder in the doorway, watching the muscles in Will's back flex as he bends over to rinse out his mouth. His ribs are decorated with yellowing bruises from the fall- when he straightens, the bruises darken in the places where his skin was pulled thin over bone- the discolored flesh shimmers, and Hannibal wants to press his fingers to it, to see his fingerprints held there for even the briefest moment.

He catches Will's eyes in the mirror; Will's smile is ten times as charming when it sits slightly crooked on his wounded face. Hannibal's face betrays little to none of what he is thinking- but it takes a great deal more than that to keep Will Graham out of Hannibal Lecter's mind.

"Is something wrong?" Will wonders, innocently enough. He breaks eye contact and reaches for the first aid kit beside the sink, searching for gauze and medical tape.

Hannibal's eyes fall to the exposed wound on Will's shoulder; he imagines the smoothness of the skin around it and what the ridge of scar tissue will someday feel like beneath his fingers.

Will gingerly tapes gauze over the wound, wincing slightly at the pain stiffness in his arm. Hannibal takes advantage of Will's distraction to close the distance between them, to hold Will by the hips and drop his forehead to the back of Will's neck, content for now to simply breathe him in. Will smells more like himself now than he has in recent days, though still not himself entirely. Someone else's clothes, someone else's blood, too many things masking Hannibal's favourite scent. He carries it with him in his memory palace, of course- it floats in the high marble halls where Will is represented in the paintings and sculptures of old- but nothing compares to the authenticity of this.

"When I opened my eyes and didn't see you, I was worried you had left," he answers, innocently enough. Irrational, he knows. Will finds it sweet.

"Where else would I go?" He whispers, and Hannibal remembers bloody knuckles and a body laid out on his dinner table- an offering not yet fit for consumption.

"You asked me that once before- I don't believe I ever gave you an answer. Have you found the answer for yourself?"

"It's the same now as it was then." Will drops the medical tape and turns; Hannibal's hands stay in place, sliding easily over Will's hips, sending shivers up his spine, raising goosebumps on his bare skin- it's such a cliché, Will nearly laughs at himself. He reaches up and pushes Hannibal's hair back, distractedly twirling it around the tips of his fingers while he considers their conversation from the night before.

"You said that I saw you and didn't turn away," he comments, not changing the subject so much as taking a shortcut to the most important part of the conversation. "But that's not quite true, is it?"

"Even when you chose to inform Jack of our plans, you did not deny what you knew." Hannibal takes Will's face in his hand, turning the injured side of it towards the light as he speaks. "You betrayed yourself as much as you betrayed me. You had accepted what _I_ was; you had not accepted what _you_ were."

"I was afraid of what I was becoming," Will admits. "I thought I could climb back into the chrysalis- lock that part of me away somewhere it would wither and die. But it survived. _I_ survived."

"And you could have run," Hannibal continues.

"I did run. Not right away, but after you surrendered to Jack," _gave yourself up for me_ , he means to say, "that's when I ran." His hand falls from Hannibal's hair. "Or _tried_ to. You were there every time I closed my eyes."

"As were you," Hannibal whispers. It sounds like so many things; an admission of the past, an assurance in the present- a promise for the future.

"You could have run," he repeats. "You've had no shortage of chances. You could have slain me, the way we slew the Dragon. You could have pushed me alone from the bluff. You could have killed me in any number of ways; I suspect that's what Jack thought you intended to do, if it wasn't his idea in the first place."

"Well, he didn't know I was going to take myself with you," Will confesses, then reconsiders. "He might have suspected."

"But you knew from the start."

_I was undecided when I called him. I deliberated while the phone rang. I knew as soon as I heard his voice._

"Does it matter?"

Hannibal smiles. "Not in the slightest."

"Your wounds seem to be healing quite well," he says a moment later, having thoroughly inspected Will's injuries. "I don't believe the cut on your cheek will leave much of a permanent scar."

"I had a good surgeon, apparently." Will doesn't remember too much of the hospital- bright lights and equally bright surges of panic when Hannibal wasn't close, when he thought the police would be called. He can still feel his heartbeat thrumming away underneath his stitches.

Hannibal's gaze shifts a shade darker, and the pulse in Will's face picks up tempo.

" _Ah_." Will raises an eyebrow when Hannibal's fingertips ghost over the scar. "You wanted to stitch me up yourself."

"Would you have let me?"

Hannibal's hand is cool on the side of Will's neck; Will eases into the touch, leaning his weight back on the countertop when Hannibal presses in against him.

"Would you have given me a choice?" He parries the question with a question of his own. Double entendre.

"There is always a choice, Will."

Will scoffs quietly, taking Hannibal's face in his hands so as to pull Hannibal's mouth to meet his own.

"No there isn't."

The kiss has no chastity too speak of- it sails right through exploratory and dives deep into heated almost as soon as it starts. Hannibal wastes no time in pushing his tongue past Will's lips- Will wastes no time in letting him. It makes sense- Hannibal _would_ be so eager to _taste_ him. Will thinks he probably doesn't taste like much other than toothpaste at the moment, but that doesn't stop him from kissing back, from tightening his hands in Hannibal's hair and tilting his head to meet the force behind every kiss.

It should feel new, he supposes; it should feel like some kind of line has been crossed here. But instead it feels like speaking a language he's known his whole life and had no one else to speak it with. That's really what every aspect of being with Hannibal feels like. What _is_ new is feeling something so purely physical in regards to Hannibal. This touch serves no higher purpose than to make him want _more_.

Their courtship, as it has been called, has always first and foremost been about the true understanding and acceptance of each others' minds. In this way, their attraction has always transcended the physical, though Will would be lying if he said he'd never wondered what such a profound knowledge of someone would feel like in terms of sex.

He doesn't need to look in Hannibal's eyes to know that they're both thinking the same thing. He can feel it in Hannibal's hands, the way his fingers dig into the tender flesh at Will's hips. He can hear it in Hannibal's breath, the way it hitches when Will bites Hannibal's bottom lip, tempted to draw blood, wondering if the blood of a predator tastes any different than that of prey. He used to wonder which one his own blood would taste like; he doesn't have to wonder anymore.

The ever present ache in Will's jaw becomes more pronounced the more Hannibal kisses him; the continuous movement of his facial muscles is only going to irritate the injury more. True to form, Hannibal almost immediately senses Will's discomfort. As reluctant as they both are to stop, he breaks the kiss, pausing just long enough to admire the dilation of Will's pupils and the kiss-reddened swell of his mouth.

Hannibal digs his teeth into Will's neck- Will hisses something that resembles 'yes', though any real ability he has to speak has been taken away by the deep current of pleasure crashing through his body. The stream inside of him swells and rises, flooding the banks and running faster through the landscape of his mind.

This is the most surreal of it, he thinks. This, the physical, was the last boundary between them; the only real place where they each had edges yet to bleed into one. They have gone so long without it, a veil drawn between them, transparent enough to see through but still too thick to break. It had deepened the meaning of every word, of every touch, as if they have always been moving toward each other underwater.

Hannibal bites harder, and the veil is torn. There is nothing slow about this; it is sharp and bright, the pain of broken skin and the gasp for air after breaking through the surface of the water. The sting he feels is nothing compared to the full-bodied shudder he gives when Hannibal sucks at the bite, perhaps drawing blood and certainly leaving a very visible mark.

Will's blood is warm on Hannibal's tongue, just as it once was on his hands. He had resisted tasting it then; he knew it had not aged to its full potential- it had not yet achieved the deepest notes of realisation and acceptance that are present in it now.

Every thought Hannibal has ever had about devouring Will in the literal sense has vanished from his mind- he much prefers this blood warm, pumping through a body that has gone pliant beneath his hands. He moans at the blood in his mouth and feels every fibre of Will's being respond in kind, leaning into the touch, his hands not so much clinging to the front of Hannibal's shirt as they are spurring him on, daring him to come closer if at all possible. Hannibal gladly rises to the challenge.

He moans again, this time in protest when Will breaks contact. He rucks the hem of Hannibal's hospital issue tee shirt up Hannibal's back, wordlessly demanding its removal. A delicate process, as Hannibal's wounds limit the movement of his arms above his head, but Will manages to get it off without needing to cut Hannibal out of it. Though, judging by the look on Will's face, that would not have been an issue. He tosses the shirt aside and immediately goes back to kissing Hannibal, raking blunt fingernails through the hair on Hannibal's chest as Hannibal pushes even closer.

It occurs to Will that Hannibal might be trying to destroy all boundaries between their bodies as he has already done between their psyches.

Hannibal pushes Will back until all of Will's weight is on the counter. This allows Will to hook his leg around the back of Hannibal's thighs, sliding his hands down over the curve of Hannibal's ass an pulling their hips together. Will can feel Hannibal hard against him, the heat of him easily felt through the layers of clothing separating skin from skin. Too many layers, Will thinks.

Hannibal outright growls when Will reaches for the button of his trousers; he pulls Will's hand away, the strength in his grip barely controlled. Will manages to break free, taking Hannibal's hand in his and interlocking their fingers- a sign of trust- they are equals, two halves of a whole. Anything Hannibal wants, Will wants too.

"I imagined this so many times," Hannibal whispers, voice hoarse, almost as if he's been crying. His words are meant to be a compliment just as much as they are a confession. The mansions of Hannibal's mind contain so many places, all rendered in stunning detail- he was alone in a cell for three years, with the whole world behind his eyelids, and this is what he thought of.

If Hannibal's admission wasn't enough to send Will's blood rushing straight south, then the sight of Hannibal sinking to his knees certainly is. He drags his lips across Will's chest, breath hot and wet and sticking to Will's skin. He goes slow, almost unbearably at first, his actions full of unmistakeable intent. If Will didn't know any better, he's day Hannibal was teasing. But Will does know better- Hannibal is _savouring_ this; the rise and fall of Will's chest beneath his mouth, the shaky inhales and ragged exhales, every shiver he elicits. Even the most imperceptible reactions Will's body has, Hannibal notices, collecting and cataloguing them in his memory.

The air comes thicker and thicker in Will's lungs the lower Hannibal goes. He stops breathing altogether when Hannibal's mouth reaches the scar that curves across his stomach- the one that Hannibal put there himself. It's then that Hannibal pauses, curling a hand around Will's hip and smoothing over the length of the scar with his thumb.

The scar itself has faded over time, but it still remains quite visible, an icy white line standing out on his skin, raised enough that Will is almost always aware of how it sits under his clothing. It has done the job Hannibal intended it to; it is a constant reminder of Hannibal's presence in Will's consciousness, of the fact that with Hannibal, Will never has to feel alone in the darkness.

This isn't the first time someone has touched it. However, no one else's touch could ever rival the power and significance of Hannibal's. The gentleness of the hand that so brutally wounded him sends a hurricane ripping through Will, leaving him in a full-body shudder. Hannibal looks up, eyes sharp and bright, mouth soft as it tips upward at the corners.

"Scars are remarkable things, Will. They are not only markers of our pain, but reminders of what we are capable of surviving." Hannibal's mouth is a hair's breadth from Will's skin; every consonant is a burst of breath, the barest lick of flame on his already burning skin.

_You and I have begun to blur._

_I'm curious whether either of us can survive separation._

Will knows now, that the answer is yes and no. He survived in some ways; in other ways, he did not. And just because one can survive something, doesn't mean one should- it doesn't mean one wants to.

"Sometimes it is the scars we cannot see that are the most telling; the most beautiful," Hannibal continues, the pads of his fingers sweeping repeatedly over the length of the scar while his lips ghost over it as well. The effect it has on Will is overwhelming- he could probably come just from this, from Hannibal's voice and the sparsest touch- Will knows it, and therefore Hannibal must know it too. And as much as Hannibal would like to test Will's limits (or lack thereof) in this regard, he has other ideas.

Will gasps softly at the first touch of cold air on his cock. The soft gasp turns sharper when the cold air is replaced by Hannibal's mouth. It's only the softest of touches, but it's significant nonetheless, the final barrier coming down between them. Will finds himself holding as still as he can, as if he's worried that the glass of this reality is fragile and will shatter if he leans too far into it. But when Hannibal's lips close around him, all Will can do is hold onto this reality for dear life.

In retrospect, it makes perfect sense that Hannibal would be good at this. His single-mindedness when it comes to achieving perfection applies in every other area of his life, so why not here as well?

Hannibal bobs his head, taking Will farther into his mouth with every movement. He swallows slowly, repeatedly, his tongue pressing firmly against the underside of Will's cock. He sucks harder as he goes, deliberately easing off every time he pulls back so as not to get this over with too quickly. He looks up at Will through his eyelashes and Will _moans_.

" _Hannibal_." Of all the ways Will has said his name in the years they've known each other, Hannibal loves this inflection best of all- breathless, needy, completely devoid of pretence or propriety.

The smell of Will's arousal is thick and inescapable, filling Hannibal's every breath- his taste, the weight of his cock in Hannibal's mouth- these are things that Hannibal has been waiting so long for a chance to learn, to know, to keep. But that's not quite accurate- he's had chances before now, has from the very beginning. But now, above all else, it feels like keeping a promise. Hannibal has never been a particularly fatalistic man, but he knows that this- that Will choosing him and all that comes with it- happened when it was supposed to, and not a moment sooner.

While Hannibal is on his knees considering the finer points of cosmic timing, Will is having difficulty forming anything that resembles a coherent thought. By the time the head of his cock hits the back of Hannibal's throat, standing is becoming somewhat of a problem as well. Will braces himself on the countertop, fingers curled white-knuckled around its edge. Hannibal's hands are steady on the backs of Will's thighs, holding him still while his mouth does all the work. He pulls of entirely for a moment, breathing heavily and heatedly before he takes Will deeper than he had before, however physically impossible Will thought it to be.

Will gasps until his lungs are full, and his head falls back, all the blood rushing from it and sending the room into a spin.

When he closes his eyes, Will sees the high ceiling of a cathedral above him, a Sistine Chapel of his mind's own making, decorated in scenes both holy and unholy- life and death themselves, Will's blood and his becoming, all in stunning detail, bathed in the warm and inconsistent light of a thousand candles. He can hear waves crashing somewhere in the distance, building bigger and bigger before they crest and crash and dissipate.

Hannibal is on his knees at Will's feet, literally and figuratively, somewhere between penitent and worshipful- Will himself in altar, God and sacrifice incarnate. He reaches out and put s a hand on Hannibal's head, opens his mouth to say a benediction, but Hannibal's name is all that leaves his lips. Benediction enough, he realises, and so he repeats himself again and again, each time more reverent than the last as the wave inside him builds and builds and builds.

Will comes and sees church collapses, the most vengeful and breathtaking Act of God bearing down upon him, the landscape of his mind momentarily crumbling into nothing as the last and most powerful wave breaks over him.

Hannibal moans around Will's cock, swallowing his release easily, eagerly, committing it to memory. He takes in the sight of Will, his hazy eyes, bare chest flushed red, rising and falling quickly as he comes back to himself. Hannibal silently vows to no one in particular that Will is and will be his alone for the rest of Will's days- it's a vow he's finally able to keep; it feels like he was meant to keep it. So much for not being all that fatalistic.

"If you only knew how you tasted to me, dear Will," Hannibal whispers, voice hoarse as he tries to catch his own breath, forehead resting on Will's thigh.

"Tell me," Will requests, almost orders. Hannibal, master of all that he is, doesn't have the words to do so. Instead, he stands and kisses Will, deeply, in a way that must convey everything that language fails to.

The way that Will kisses Hannibal in turn tells him that Will, as always, understands _perfectly_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! :)


	6. firsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will almost blurts 'I'm not a serial killer'. But then, he _is ___seriously considering cutting off Freddie Lounds's fingers and force feeding them to her.

**_Seven Days Post-Fall:_ **

****

**_BAU OFFICES, FBI HEDQUARTDERS, QUANTICO VA. 9:30 A.M._ **

The door to Crawford's office is transparent glass; this makes it easy to see that Crawford isn't alone. He doesn't look too happy either. Starling could turn her back and try not to look like she's accidentally eavesdropping- but the glass does nothing in the way of soundproofing her from Crawford's current conversation, so Starling doesn't bother turning her back at all.

"I'm starting to wonder if calling you in on this was a good idea," Crawford is saying. The woman he's speaking to has nice clothes, dark hair and tired eyes; hers is a face that Starling feels like she should be able to put a name to.

"I'm starting to wonder if maybe you're a little too close to this," Crawford adds. The woman all but scoffs at his assessment.

"I think it's safe to say that we're both a little too close to this, Jack," she retorts, though her voice carries too much dead weight for the words to have any real bite to them. Still, Starling is none too surprised to find that there are people who actually talk back to Crawford that way. Or maybe this woman is the only one who's had the nerve to do it thus far. The woman's words hang in the air, shattering and dropping when Crawford's desk phone rings a moment later.

"Go," Crawford orders into the phone as soon as he picks it up. He nods once, twice, staring at one fixed point near his feet and listening intently to whatever the caller is telling him. At one point, Crawford's eyes lift from the one fixed point- they land on Starling, having sensed her staring at him. She nearly jumps as the abruptness of it- it's only now that she realises she's been staring.

Crawford ends his phone call with a sharp "No," immediately followed by "Come in"- this part addressed to Starling with a wave of his hand.

"She's here," Crawford informs the dark-haired woman as Starling is pushing past the heavy glass door. It already feels like she's been inside the office since she got here- actually crossing the threshold had lost all the significance she's sure it must have had for her classmates in recent days.

"I'll take care of it," the woman says to Crawford, though her eyes are on Starling.

"Starling, Clarice M." Jack is looking at a file one his desk as he speaks. Starling realises the file is hers. "I'd like you to meet Doctor Alana Bloom, one of our-" Jack looks up at this, at Bloom, as if he can't quite figure out what he should introduce her as. "She's one of our psychological consultants for the Lecter-Graham task force."

"Please, Jack," Bloom says, all but rolling her eyes. "Judging by the look on your recruit's face, she already knows who I am."

It's not said with any self-importance; it's abundantly clear to Starling that Bloom is very good at her job, which is reading people like open books. What she's said is completely true- as soon as Jack introduced Bloom by name, Starling remembered where she'd seen the face before- on the FBI's former teaching faculty list, and the tabloid rags that Starling has never paid much attention to. Much.

"I'm an old friend of Agent Crawford's," Bloom says, offering Starling her hand. "I also know Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham quite well."

It's an understatement and they both know it. But for Bloom to tell Starling the true extent of 'quite well' might take all day. Starling takes her hand and gives her a polite (if not somewhat out of place) smile.

"Good to meet you, even under the circumstances," Starling says honestly.

"Likewise," Doctor Bloom answers. Starling can't quite place the look of strange recognition that crosses Bloom's face the longer Bloom looks at her. It's  a bit like she's seen a ghost.

"If you'll excuse me, I have to go meet a visitor." Bloom lets go of Starling's hand and turns back to Crawford. "I'll take her to the conference room and wait for you there."

Bloom sweeps from the office with a remarkably authoritative grace, though Starling doesn't miss the slight unevenness in her gait- the remnant of an old injury that Starling has only read about.

"So, Starling." Crawford starts in before Bloom has even shut the door behind her. "Your instructors tell me you're doing well- top of your class."

"I hope so, they haven't posted anything."

Starling comes from people who don't press friends for favours. It kind of feels like that's what's happening now, although she's never met Crawford before in her life. So far, all the rumours she's heard about the Guru are true. Intimidating, yes, but with an intuitive kind of charm that puts you at ease with being slightly intimidated. Starling wonders if that's part of his personality, or if he's just that good of a profiler. She decides that it's probably both- she's a pretty good profiler too. Which is how she knows, based on Crawford's comment about her grades and his lack of annoyance at her eavesdropping on his conversation with Bloom, that he's gearing up to ask her to be on his task force. But she has no idea _why_.

"Am I correct in assuming that you watch the news, Starling?"

Crawford's question doesn't surprise her- the fact that he needs to ask does. It's widely known that trainees often get together in the dorm buildings' common areas and watch the news and speculate about it. It's almost a better team building exercise than any the academy actually teaches them.

"Yes sir."

"And what do you make of it?"

This is a test; that much is obvious. Starling knows exactly what Crawford expects her to say- what he _wants_ her to say. She counts herself lucky that what he wants her to say is also her honest opinion on the subject.

"I think the media's telling of this story is nothing more than wild conjecture, as usual. Reporters either know too much or not enough. And the ones that think they know too much are often misinformed or incredibly biased- or both."

"Good, that's good," Crawford says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I can't have anyone on my task force who just goes around believing everything they hear."

"I prefer to get my information straight from the source. But there's always value in knowing what the public's perception of the events are."

"Alright, so let's say you're the public. What's your perception of the events?"

"With all due respect sir, I find it difficult to look at anything from the perspective of an ordinary citizen anymore."

"I know the feeling." Crawford rounds his desk, picking up a tablet from atop a stack of papers. "Once you put on behavioural science goggles, it's hard to ever take them off." He stands right in front of Starling, looking at her with what Starling knows are those very same goggles. "So, give me your perception of the events as a student of behavioural science."

"It's been a week since Hannibal Lecter's escape from the Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane," Starling begins, letting her ideas grow to thoughts which she then distils to words in a matter of seconds. "He was in the company of former Special Agent Will Graham at the time of his escape from Federal custody- Doctor Lecter and Special Agent Graham have a history as patient and doctor, as friends, and as rumoured lovers if the media is to be believed."

"From the site of Lecter's escape, he and Graham were tracked to a house Lecter kept on the Maryland coast. The FBI wasn't the only entity tracking them. Francis Dolarhyde, the man now believed to be the serial killer known as the 'Tooth Fairy' or 'The Red Dragon' as he named himself, followed Graham and Lecter to this house with the apparent intention of killing them. Based on reports from the scene, there was a struggle which ostensibly resulted in Dolarhyde being killed by Graham and Lecter. Because of blood evidence, we know that both Graham and Lecter were wounded, but they disappeared soon after killing Dolarhyde, and no hospitals in the area have reported treating anyone who matches their descriptions."

"The media is divided," Starling continues. "Half of the news outlets think Graham and Lecter are alive and on the run; the other half think that either Graham, Lecter, or both of them, are dead."

"What do you think?"

"I can't speak to that sir- I'm no forensic specialist, and I haven't read the official crime scene reports. But I think that if they _are_ alive, neither of them are in a well enough physical state to be a danger to anyone. They're probably lying low, hiding out somewhere until their injuries have healed enough for them to make a run for the border. I know that Lecter went to Europe the last time he fled the country. But his getaway would have to be faster- this manhunt is happening on State _and_ Federal levels, and it's happening fast. South America is their best bet."

"What if I were to tell you that one of them is alive and the other one isn't?"

Starling very nearly balks.

"Are- are we speaking hypothetically, sir?"

"I don't have the time to speak hypothetically where this manhunt is concerned, Starling." Crawford lowers his chin, and the shadows under his eyes darken.

"Are you still asking for a behavioural assessment?" Starling asks; Crawford nods. Another test, then. This time, Starling doesn't really know what Crawford wants her to say. She's going to go with her honest opinion again- it hasn't failed her yet.

"In that case, I can't give you one. I don't know the full extent of the relationship between Graham and Lecter. You haven't told me which of them is dead, in which case I can't really say how the surviving one would behave. I'd have to read their files to determine where they might go or what they might do."

Crawford just nods, expression unreadable. He hands her the tablet, and she holds it up in silent question, words suddenly losing their power.

"Those are the files. All the stuff we have on Lecter's crimes as the Chesapeake Ripper, Will Graham's personnel file and psych work-ups from when he was employed by the Bureau, even his medical reports from his recovery after Lecter nearly gutted him with a linoleum knife."

"Why are you giving me these?" Starling wonders- her voice is quiet, and she hears more of West Virginia in it than she has in years. Crawford just smiles again, the same half-hearted crook of his lips, and it makes Starling wonder what his real smile looks like.

"Welcome to the Lecter-Graham task force, Agent Starling."

* * *

**_BALTIMORE, MD. 9:45 A.M._ **

"There's going to be a press conference."

Hannibal and Will hadn't even entered the kitchen yet; nevertheless, Will wasn't surprised that Chiyoh heard them coming down the hallway. She says it loud enough for there to be no mistaking who she's talking to- loud enough to let them know that she's fully aware of what they're doing just around the corner.

Will is walking in front of Hannibal, until Hannibal grabs him by the hand, spinning him into an embrace similar to that of a dance. What happens from then on involves nothing that is anything at all like dancing. It reminds Will more of high school, of hiding out behind the bleachers and kissing until you can't breathe. Will has grown to expect the unexpected, but he never thought he'd be comparing kissing Hannibal to being a hormonal teenager. But, like teenagers caught under the bleachers, they quickly break apart and reluctantly turn the corner into the kitchen, where the smell of fresh coffee hits them like a wall.

"Good morning," Will says, because Chiyoh neglected to. "What's this about a press conference?"

Chiyoh is perched on a tall stool at the kitchen island, leaning forward and staring intently at two different laptop screens, each one displaying a different twenty-four hour news feed. Every single headline on both the screens is related to the escape of Hannibal The Cannibal and the 'mentally unstable' rogue FBI agent Will Graham.

One of the biggest lines of block letters reads _: **CANNIBAL CONFIRMED DEAD: FBI AGENT STILL MISSING.**_ Another one says **_LECTER DEAD?_** So. Not well and truly confirmed, then. Still, good to know that Freddie Lounds is toeing the line- for now, at least.

"We don't know anything for sure right now, Jeff," says a newswoman in a pink coat, standing in front of the J. Edgar Hoover Building. "The FBI hasn't reported finding a body or making an arrest, but inside sources tell me that the Behavioural Analysis Unit is sitting on some kind of concrete evidence that Hannibal Lecter is dead. And now, with the announcement of the press conference this afternoon, it's only a matter of time until we have confirmation of that evidence."

Another headline appears on screen: **_FBI TO HOLD PRESS CONFERENCE RE: LECTER AND GRAHAM._** The other newsfeed already has a box in the corner of their screen, counting down the hours, minutes and seconds until the press conference starts.

"The press conference will be held at four PM Eastern Standard Time," says the news anchor named Jeff, shuffling the papers on the desk in front of him. "It will be broadcasted here and on every major news station across the country. Stay tuned for constant coverage of the continuing investigation into-"

Chiyoh mutes the computer, crosses her arms, and turns to look at Will with a somewhat accusatory glare.

"Jack has spoken to Freddie, then," Will says in reaction to the newscasts, ignoring Chiyoh's eyes on him. "And Freddie has obviously spoken to a lot of other people as well. Jack will probably be on his way here soon if he isn't already."

"What do you suppose this press conference will be about?" Hannibal asks, crossing the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee from the steaming carafe. Will's never seen Hannibal drink coffee that he didn't hand press himself. It occurs to him that today is a day for firsts. It _also_ occurs to him that Hannibal's question is at least fifty percent rhetorical. He answers it anyway.

"I suppose it'll be about whatever Jack hopes to find when he comes here. All we have to do is make sure he doesn't find anything."

Will accepts a mug of coffee from Hannibal, and they both drink in accidental, absentminded unison. Their hands fall within inches of each other's as they lean against the kitchen counter. Will watches as Hannibal smiles, more with his eyes than with his mouth, and as much as it is a day for firsts, Will is pleased to note that some things have remained unchanged.

"Maybe Jack has already found something else." Chiyoh turns to Hannibal and Will, wordlessly holding out her phone. Hannibal takes the phone, looks once at Will, and hands it over to him.

 ** _MISTRESS OF A MURDERER_** is the title of the article. The subtitle is equally disconcerting: **_FBI enlists help of ex-agent's widow(?)_**.

There are pictures of Molly stepping out of an FBI issue black sedan, being escorted by agents up the front steps of the BAU offices. The actual text portion of the article is worse; all it has to say is that there are rumours of Molly helping the BAU in the search for her fugitive husband, and why else would the FBI _possibly_ be talking to her than they have solid evidence of Will Graham being alive? The speculation continues for three more paragraphs, but Will barely makes it through one of them before he begins to see red.

_I'm sure my readers are dying to know what it was like, playing house with one half of America's favourite killer couple. I don't know if Molly would warm up to me right away, but then- everyone has a price._

In one moment, Will sees Jack's strategy playing out in front of him. It's equal parts clever and callous and Will is torn between hating Jack for it and knowing he himself would have done the same thing.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say this looks like the work of Freddie Lounds," Hannibal comments, reading the article over Will's shoulder.

"There's no reason this _couldn't_ be Lounds." Chiyoh takes the phone from Will when she realises he's just staring off into space. "This is a feed from an anonymous blogging site where people can go to discuss and speculate about famous crimes. This one mainly centers on serial killers and their families."

Will almost blurts _'I'm not a serial killer'_. But then, he _is_ seriously considering cutting off Freddie Lounds's fingers and force feeding them to her. Also, there's the growing number of deaths he's responsible for, and the fact that, by virtue of recent (and not so recent) events, he is technically in a relationship with a man who is one of the most _famous_ serial killers in history. So, any argument he can think of is already dead in the water.

"Jack's going to try and talk her into speaking at the press conference," is all Will can think to say. "Probably to get media sympathy and plea to whatever's left of my connection to her, or my conscience, or just my sense of common decency- whichever one Jack thinks will do the job best. He's hoping I'll turn myself in. But I can't imagine Alana will like the idea of putting Molly in front of the entire federal press corps." It's a safe bet that if Jack has resorted to calling Molly, he's already talked to Alana.

"Why wouldn't Alana like that idea?" Hannibal's shoulders are set in an unmistakeable challenge to Will's reasoning. Their entire relationship was built on the challenging of one another's reasoning, so Will feels mostly unthreatened. However, there is an edge to Hannibal's voice that indicates he means to threaten someone.

"We can't hope for Alana to do anything that might benefit us, Will," Hannibal continues. "She made her choice a long time ago."

Every part of Will resents that this has come down to something as basic and childish as choosing sides. But Hannibal's not wrong. However severe his bias against Alana really is, he's definitely not wrong. That doesn't mean Will has to like it.

_There is always a choice, Will._

_No there isn't._

"Jack will be here by noon," Will predicts, putting down his coffee mug before he feels compelled to throw it. He looks at Chiyoh, blatantly avoiding Hannibal altogether. "Just make sure Bedelia's ready."

Freddie Lounds likes to tell people that Will Graham is insane. Sometimes, he's inclined to agree with her. He's definitely the only person insane enough to turn his back on someone like Hannibal Lecter while in a room  with drawers full of knives. But that's just what he does- he turns his back and storms out of the room without any hesitation. There was a time when he wouldn't have dared. It's a day for firsts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooooooo muuuuuuuuch ploooooooot. This story is seriously snowballing. I hope you stay for the ride.


	7. zugzwang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> zugzwang  
> (n.) German  
> The pressure to make a decision quickly, without any knowledge of possible outcomes, even though you'd rather have time to see things clearer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received so many nice comments on the last chapter, it literally breathed life back into my winter-frozen soul. Thanks so much for your encouragement :) Also I apologize in advance once again for any typos, I wanted to get this up, I'll go back and fix them later. (What's that thing Hannibal said about using apologies sparingly? Ah well).

**_Seven Days Post-Fall:_ **

****

**_BAU OFFICES, FBI HEDQUARTDERS, QUANTICO VA. 9:33 A.M._ **

"Now, the conversation I'm about to have is a very important one, probably the most important one I've had all week," Jack explains, standing with his hand on the conference room door's handle, looking over his shoulder as he talks to Starling, who holds the tablet full of case files clutched to her chest.

"Normally I would tell any trainee, or any agent for that matter, not to say anything stupid." Jack turns now, fully facing Starling as if to emphasise the significance of what he's saying. "But something tells me I'm not going to have that problem with you, am I Agent Starling?"

"No sir," Starling confirms, shaking her head until her ponytail whips at the sides of her neck.

"Alright." Crawford nods. "You're about to meet Molly Graham."

He opens the door before Starling even has time to react. In the end she chooses not to react at all, keeping her face and shoulders relaxed as she follows Jack into the conference room, where Doctor Bloom waits with another woman who looks to Starling like a fish out of water, someone who fundamentally does not belong in this place. She looks overstressed and under slept, barely wearing any makeup, though she shows no signs of having cried recently. Starling can see scuffs and calluses on her hands which are folded in front of her on the conference room table.

Starling is vividly reminded of her own (late) mother- a woman with strong hands who didn't mind thankless work so long as those she loved were taken care of because of it. Honest, kind, dependable. The fact that Molly Graham, a mother like Starling's- an honest, kind, _dependable_ woman- has been pulled into this near-farce of a narrative, into this world where truth is regularly stranger than fiction- in that instant, Starling forgets not to be unbiased toward the subject of her profile. In that instant, she _hates_ Will Graham.

For her part, Molly Graham takes the news of her husband's not-death remarkably well. Which is to say she barely reacts at all. One minute, Crawford is introducing Starling- the next, he's launching right into his prepared speech.

"I'm not going to try and soften any blows here, Molly- Will is alive."

Starling has never seen anyone talk to a widow (or widow-then-not-widow) with so much frankness. But then Molly just leans back in her chair and whispers _'son of a bitch'_ , and Starling sees why Crawford's frankness is appropriate in this situation. She says it all like one word, a single quiet slur that has Starling on the verge of inexplicable laughter.

"So, what is it that you need me to do?" Molly asks a moment later, when the silence that ensues from her 'son of a bitch' becomes a little awkward. "No offence, Agent Crawford, but you could have given me this information over the phone."

"We know Will is alive," Bloom cuts in, taking the seat next to Molly and leaning over in the most sympathetic manner she can manage at that angle. "We don't know what kind of mental state he's in. He paid a visit to Freddie Lounds-"

This, Molly does not take so well. Her eyes go wide, her face goes sickly pale, and her hands clench into fists on the tabletop.

"Oh _God_. Did he? Is she-"

"Miss Lounds is perfectly fine. He didn't hurt her," Jack quickly intervenes, shooting a sideways glare at Bloom. "Or even try to for that matter, which suggests that his mental state is good. He hasn't hurt anyone since he disappeared-"

 _That we know of_ , Starling amends mentally.

"- so he's probably not in any kind of dissociative state. He can be _reasoned_ with." Jack takes the chair in front of him and rolls it around the table so he can sit on the side of Molly where Bloom isn't. To Starling, they look like a cartoon tableau- angel on one shoulder, devil on the other, both whispering opposite things to an unsuspecting mortal. She hasn't quite figured out just who is the devil and who is the angel.

"And you think I should be the one to reason with him." Molly is quick on the uptake, and doesn't seem at all intimidated by Crawford's presence. Maybe she belongs in this world more than Starling had originally thought.

"There's going to be a press conference," Crawford explains. "We're setting up a tip line for people to call in if they know anything. What we want _you_ to do is talk to the people, tell them your story. We want you to try and send a message to Will; tell him the truth, that none of this has to be any harder than it already is- we just want to bring him in safely."

"So you can arrest him?"

Crawford looks, as Starling's father would have said, well and truly stymied.

"At best, he was aiding and abetting," Bloom says softly, putting a hand on Molly's shoulder. "At worst-"

"We just don't want anyone to get hurt," Crawford finishes.

"You don't _have_ to do this, Molly," Bloom argues, though she looks at Crawford while she speaks. "This would be an incredibly complicated time for anyone in your position, emotionally and psychologically. You need to work through this, to understand it and find a way to move on from it. Doing this press conference, going in front of those cameras, is publicises and immortalises your grieving process, a process which you deserve to experience privately. There's no guarantee that this will work, that your speaking at this press conference will actually convince Will turn himself in."

"Not to mention that if he _is_ crazy, he could come after me," Molly adds, more to herself than to anyone in the room.

"We can keep you safe," Crawford offers. "You can go back to Oregon, I'll have a protective detail follow you there, guard the house-"

"For how long? If it doesn't work, if Will _doesn't_ turn himself in, if you can't find him, how long will I be looking over my shoulder- how long will I have live like that? How long _can_ I live like that?"

Bloom looks silently triumphant, but only until Jack starts talking again.

"Will isn't in a good way right now. He was injured in the fall; he has to be getting tired of this. And he has no reason to hurt you. It may not be guarantee, but he's more likely to come in quietly if you ask him to. And if he doesn't- I worked with Will for years. I know how he thinks, better than anyone else in the FBI. I'll find him, I promise you."

Molly thinks for a moment, but not for long enough of a moment to make Starling think that she hadn't already made her decision the moment Crawford asked her to make it.

"I'll do it."

* * *

**_BALTIMORE, MD. 10:01 A.M._ **

After Will leaves the kitchen, he wanders the house (though not so aimlessly) until he comes to the guest bedroom where Bedelia has been sequestered since the only sort of hostile takeover of her home. When Will opens the door, Bedelia doesn't stir, still buried beneath the heavy quilt of barbiturates Chiyoh administered. He closes the door behind him and leans heavily on it, crossing his arms over his chest. His head is still clouded with questions and anger- not anger at Hannibal, or anyone else, really- the anger is directed mostly at himself and at the situation he is solely responsible for getting himself into.

How he ever thought he could have achieved normality is a mystery to him now- why he ever wanted to try is equally as perplexing.

Wrong. He knows exactly why he wanted to try. The answer is the same as every question ever asked about his motives for doing anything: Hannibal.

Still, he only blames himself for putting Molly right in the middle of it. He thinks now that maybe he _is_ the monster, not just the man who thinks like one, who is haunted by monsters and loved by a monster and loves that monster in return. After all, who but a monster would pull an innocent down into the darkness so as to try and claw its way back up to the light?

Wrong. It's not as biblical or as absolute as the simple matter of light and darkness. With Hannibal, it's always been about moral grey areas, about the crossing of lines and the pushing of boundaries, about the accepting of things that he never would have accepted before. He thinks he's never understood better the obsession Francis Dolarhyde had with becoming and transformation.

_I don't know if I can save myself. Maybe that's just fine._

He had meant it when he'd said it.

_It's beautiful._

He'd meant that too. It had been the most natural thing in the world for him to say it.

He'd meant it when he'd married Molly- at least the part of him still clinging to sanity had meant it, or wanted to. The rest of him had wanted to, desperately. He should have known it wouldn't last- but then, he was always a dedicated student to the craft of fooling himself. He's under no such illusions now- he may have gone outside the law and the realm of rational thought, but there's no reason that Molly should be subjected to this chess match Jack has challenged Will to.

Will scrubs a hand over his face and through his hair, closing his eyes against the storm of his thoughts. All this does is trap the thoughts behind his eyes, pressing in between the hemispheres of his brain and pulsating with the beginnings of a headache the likes of which he hasn't had in years.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Bedelia's voice is thick; her eyelids flutter under the weight of persistent unconsciousness. Even with the unfocussed haze in her eyes, the look she gives Will is still far too knowing and self-satisfied for his liking.

"Good, your awake." Will uncrosses his arms and crosses the room to sit in the chair by the bed. What ensues is a staring contest; the loser breaks down and starts an actual conversation.

"I would have thought Agent Crawford would be here by now." Bedelia blinks as she speaks.

"He will be. Soon. That's why it's good you're awake." Will still hasn't blinked yet. He makes it another ten seconds before he finally does.

"Ah. I see- you're going to put me on the front line," Bedelia surmises. "He'll have no choice but to leave if I won't let him in- and the time it takes to get a warrant will buy you some time- although, not as much time as it might if this were any other manhunt."

"We're a high priority for the FBI right now," Will agrees. "Any warrant Jack applies for regarding us will be expedited- it'll go through faster than it would through normal channels."

"Surely you didn't come all this way to talk about federal search warrants." Bedelia rolls onto her side and leans up on her elbow, still obviously groggy.

"Then surely you must have some idea as to what I _actually_ came to talk about." Will crosses his arms again in a subliminal challenge.

"Perhaps you're regretting the choice you've made," Bedelia replies with her very best imitation of an actually helpful therapist. "The repercussions of choosing Hannibal have finally caught up with you, and you're not sure if you can live with yourself."

"I didn't choose Hannibal," Will corrects her. "The way I want him- the way I _need_ him- that's not something you choose. When we went over the cliff- _that_ was a choice. And I don't regret it. Granted, I didn't really think either of us would survive, but, like I said- there are some things you don't get to choose."

"Can't live with him, can't live without him." Bedelia sits up slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed so she can face Will properly, brushing her fingers through her hair to pull it from its pillow-pressed shape. "You can't have both."

"I thought if I wasn't going to get to live with him-" against all odds, Will's next words startle him- "the only way I would be able to live without him was not to live at all."

"A simple ultimatum. So why does it upset you? Is it the inherent amorality of being with a man like Hannibal Lecter, and therefore having to condone his actions?"

"Amorality implies its own polar opposite." Will shakes his head. "Morality itself has never been black and white for me- not with the way I think, not with all the mirrors in my head and the way they perfectly reflect the mind of whoever I choose to see." _Or don't choose, as it turns out._

"So what about this situation is so upsetting to you?"

"Morality does exist, even if it doesn't exist for _me_. It is black and white for some people. And Molly, she's one of those people. It's unfair that she's- what I am, what I've done- it's unfair to her."

"Where is it written that life is fair?" Bedelia wonders sardonically, and will can't help but laugh. A long moment of less than friendly but more than unfriendly silence passes before Bedelia speaks again.

"Do you ever feel guilty, Will? For all the deaths you've been responsible for, for the lives you've taken or the lives you've allowed Hannibal to take?"

"I used to," Will admits. "But the process of my own personal evolution has found guilt to be a waste of energy."

"And yet you feel guilty for involving your wife in this world of _kill-or-be-killed_ \- or just _kill-because-you-want-to_." Bedelia sounds somewhat fascinated by this possibility. "Your guilt is residual- it has developed into an organ no longer necessary for the sustainment of life, and yet still present enough that it causes discomfort when it becomes inflamed."

"Guilt as a medical metaphor." Will laughs humourlessly. "What would you suggest I do about it, doctor?"

"You've said yourself that there are some things we do not get to choose. You've made peace with that aspect of nature, and you've made all of the choices you've been allowed to make. As for the guilt," Bedelia leans forward, voice low and conspiratory,  "it serves no purpose- as you said yourself, your own personal evolution has ruled it a waste of energy. The organ is doing more harm than good. Cut it out."

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were actually a decent therapist," Will says, only half-joking. "I might have to keep you around for a while longer." He stands, his injuries reminding him of their presence with all manner of aches and pains that strike like lightning from muscle to joint.

"We both know that this has been coming for some time." Bedelia takes a deep and somewhat resigned breath as Will walks to the door. "There's no use delaying the inevitable."

"The warrant should buy us a little less than twelve hours," Will agrees by way of bringing the conversation full circle. "That's plenty of time for Hannibal to cook a decent meal."

* * *

**_BAU OFFICES, FBI HEDQUARTDERS, QUANTICO VA. 10:05 A.M._ **

Shortly after Crawford convinces Molly Graham to speak at the press conference, he gets into an argument with Bloom. Or rather, she gets into an argument with him. It happens quickly, Bloom excusing herself from the room and requesting to speak with Crawford privately.

It seems as though Starling is about to be alone with Molly for the first time since meeting her. She quickly tries to remember the class she had last month on how to converse with the family members of victims and/or suspects. She does not yet know which one Molly Graham qualifies as. The tablet in her hands grows existentially heavy with all of the knowledge she has yet to incur about this case, and she reminds herself to remain unbiased until she's been exposed to all of the facts.

As it turns out, Crawford gives Starling a look and inclines his head just so, silently summoning her to join him in the hallway and be privy to what she's sure must be a very private conversation. But she's on the task force, like Crawford says, and so she's not about to question any call he makes.

"You can't promise her things like that, Jack," Bloom says tersely as soon as the door clicks shut behind them. "You can't promise that you'll find Will and bring him back safely, without anyone else getting hurt. That's tantamount to a surgeon putting a guarantee on their ability to save lives. It just isn't done."

"She knows the risks," Crawford fires back. "And she's a smart woman-"

"She is a victim, not a mouthpiece. She has been traumatised, whether she shows it or not, whether she chooses to see it or not- she has been traumatised."

"Are you sure we're talking about Molly?"

Bloom scoffs, though the look in her eye is one of a child that knows their mother is right but would sooner die than admit it.

"You asked me here for advice, Jack. For support. Potentially adding more trauma to an already traumatised mind is not something I can actively support."

"No one's asking you to. I brought you in on this because you're one of the only people left who knows how high the stakes are here- but if you can't see when it's time for us to cut our losses and make the best call we can despite the fallout it might cause, maybe it's time for you to leave." Crawford points down the hallway, towards the elevator that looms like an impossible decision.

"I'm not leaving her to do this alone." Bloom verbally and literally digs her heels into the ground, standing firm in her resolve.

"Then I need you to stay with her. But I also need to know that you won't talk her out of it."

"Fine," Bloom reluctantly agrees.

Crawford turns down the hallway toward the elevator, still looming like an impossible choice. Starling understands very well that the impossible choices are also the necessary ones, more often than not. Crawford motions for her to follow him, so she does.

"Sir, you told me that only one of them survived. Does this mean that Lecter is dead?"

"As far as we know." Crawford takes the tablet from Starling's hands, turning it on and scrolling through files, only to hand it back to her when they reach the elevator.

"Hannibal Lecter is dead," a voice says from the tablet. It's an audio file titled _Lounds, Graham, article 332_. That's all it is, the same four words spoken over and over as the three second clip repeats itself.

"Who's voice is that?" Starling asks, allowing herself one obvious question.

"You already know," Crawford answers, stepping sideways into the elevator while the doors are still sliding open.

"Where are we going?" Starling asks, a far less obvious question in her opinion. Crawford hits the button for the parking garage, and the elevator lurches into motion, the impossible but necessary choice having been made.

"Baltimore, Agent Starling," Crawford tells her, the name of the city ringing with the shadows of whatever history it holds for him. "We're going to Baltimore."

* * *

**_BALTIMORE, MD. 10:15 A.M._ **

Will's trip through the emptiness of the house eventually takes him back to the kitchen. He finds Chiyoh, alone, still absorbed by whatever she's reading on her phone. Hannibal is apparently elsewhere.

"He's resting," she says, not looking up. Will didn't realise he'd asked where Hannibal was. Maybe he didn't and this is just another example of Chiyoh's uncanny abilities.

"Physical exertion is especially draining at this stage in the recovery process," she continues. "In certain cases, too much of it can be detrimental. I expect you not to overexert him again."

"I intend to do no such thing," he deadpans, pouring himself a glass of water. "But however he chooses to exert himself is his prerogative, not mine."

"That's not quite true," Chiyoh points out, finally looking away from her phone, though she still doesn't look at Will. "He has you well within his grasp, that much is certain. But you too have the power to influence him, more than I do, more than anyone he's ever known." The place she's looking is off to Will's left, far enough from him so that she can pretend not to see his reaction, but close enough to him so that she can gauge every micro-expression he makes.

"It makes a certain sense, I suppose," she continues. "Several aspects of your relationship lend themselves to a certain potential for manipulation. What I do not understand is how you have come to have such a great amount of power in so short a time. In terms of Hannibal's entire life, your time with him is but a fraction of the whole."

"Whereas you've known him much longer than I have," Will unearths her unspoken accusation with ease. "You can't pretend you're not a little bitter that I have no long standing claim, and yet I can get him to do things you never could."

Chiyoh remains silent; this is an answer in and of itself.

"I get it. Fifth amendment and all that." Will shrugs. "What you don't understand isn't how I've come by this influence. It's the nature of relationships. The strength of a bond between two people has less to do with time than it does with intensity. Love, whether it be familial or romantic, can happen in an instant and last for a lifetime. It's the depth of such love rather than the length of it that gives people power over each other. You and Hannibal share a love akin to family. If there's one thing Hannibal covets and respects, it's the strength of family. He's also somewhat of a perfectionist."

"Somewhat," Chiyoh parrots his understatement with some humor in her voice, and Will knows they've officially turned a corner.

"Once he gets an idea- once the vision of something he wants is in his mind, he'll chase it relentlessly until it becomes his reality," Will says. "You know that as well as I do. He's always had a vision for what he wanted he and I to be. It was a family, with Abigail- I think it must have been the first time in his life that he was unable to achieve the perfection of his imagined reality. But as much as he's a perfectionist, he knows how to make do with what he has. And he has me, as you said. He's had me since the beginning. And I have him."

"What are you implying?" Chiyoh narrows her eyes, and Will feels as though they're losing the common ground they've only just gained.

"You don't have him." Will shrugs again, unafraid of the consequences that might befall him in saying this. "I think sometimes that he sees you as a means to an end."

"And what does that make you?"

Chiyoh's on her feet now, shoulders squaring in an intimidation tactic that falls flat, simply because Will can't be intimidated. He's sure some people must find it terrifying. He walks well into her personal space, casually taking another sip of water from his glass and swallowing it slowly before he deigns to answer her challenge.

"I'm the end he's trying to reach. That's the difference between you and I. It's the difference between me and everyone he's ever known. It's the difference that gives me _all_ that power."

He turns his back on her, then. Maybe he's being unnecessarily dismissive, but the side of him that's still spiteful about the train and the shoulder wound can't be bothered to give a damn.

"I suppose he should think himself fortunate, then, that you do not seek to use this power against him."

"I have before," Will counters, back still turned. "After Hannibal turned himself over to Jack, I only ever made one comment to the press." It had been an offhanded thing, borne out of his exhaustion and malice toward the media. "After the conviction and sentencing, when I left the courthouse, I was ambushed by reporters, dozens of them, but they only had one question- how did I do it? How did I catch _Hannibal The Cannibal_?"

"What did you say?"

"I said 'I let him kill me'. Quickly, without even thinking, because it was mostly true and pithy enough to shut them up. After that it was 'no comment', and the attention on me dwindled pretty quickly. 'I let him kill me' was a home run. It was a headline on three different front pages. But like I just said, it was only mostly true. I let him kill me, sure. But that's not how I caught him, it's how I let him get away. I caught him because I let him _love_ me."

"And I _could_ say I never really expected to love him back, but I think I felt that way about him before I was even consciously aware of what he really was. Of course, on some level, I always knew what he really was. So on some level, I've always loved him."

The tension in the air dissipates as Chiyoh relaxes her shoulders.

"So you truly have no intention of betraying him."

"Truly," Will replies softly. "Whatever it costs me- he's the end I'm trying to reach."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I let him kill me" is what Will says to Chilton in the Red Dragon movie (and book? I haven't read it in a while) when Will goes to visit Hannibal and Chilton's all "Hanni won't talk to me :( give me something to write about so I don't look like an idiot :(". I'm 99.9% sure they never used that line in the show?? But my paranoia tells me I'm wrong and that they have. I haven't actually watched the show in a while. Too many EMOTIONS.
> 
> And can I just take this moment to say that I really love Molly? I have since I first read the book years ago and I loved how they depicted her in the show and as much as I ship the living daylights out of Hannibal and Will, she deserved so much better than to get dragged into their big gay murder opera.


	8. hypnopompic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hypnopompic  
> (adj.) Greek  
> of or relating to the state immediately preceding waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I didn't randomly disappear off the face of the earth! I'm just an idiot who clearly hates herself and tries to juggle a thousand writing projects at once. Still, I apologize for making you wait so long and then not giving you a whole hell of a lot.

**Eighteen Hours Post-Fall (Past):**

 

**_HARFORD COUNTY COTTAGE HOSPITAL, HARFORD COUNTY, MD. TIME UNKNOWN._ **

Will came back to himself slowly, thrown from the ocean of unconsciousness and onto the shores of coherent thought, the rock of it slippery and unsteady beneath the reaching fingers of Will's mind. There were a few minutes (minutes, he later assumed, though was truly impossible to tell) between sleeping and waking during which he had no definite recollection of where he was or why he was there.

He opened his eyes to blinding white lights and equally blinding whit flashes of pain, spikes of it easily penetrating the dull blanket of narcotics that covered him- and pieces of the narrative began to work their way through the cracks of agony and residual sleep. With these pieces came the instinctual urge to move, to flee, to find the thing that was apparently missing.

Hannibal. Where was Hannibal?

Will opened his mouth and took a deep breath- the chemical stench of dry hospital air burned its way down his already dry throat. He found that this was the least of his pain- the acute and persistent ache was concentrated on his right side, his face and in his shoulder throbbing in time with his still sluggish pulse. He turned his head and felt the pull of the oxygen tube, looped under his nose and up over his ears. He caught sight of the sling that held his injured arm in place, though it didn't explain why his left arm was also refusing to move.

Another look down provided the answer- a padded restraint cuff held his arm at his side, secured to the hospital bed frame. This was a sight which was sorely familiar- as were the cuffs around his ankles. As much as the restraints strengthened his fight or flight response, he was at least relieved that the cuffs weren't police issue. Another piece of the puzzle- the police were looking for him- they hadn't found him. At least, they hadn't found him _yet_.

"You need to keep still, sir," said the nurse who had seemed to materialise from thin air to come and stand beside Will's bed. She may have been there the whole time, he couldn't be sure. Her steps oscillated around him, checking monitors, IV drips, shining a penlight into his eyes and pressing her fingers to his throat- all the usual nurse-like invasions of privacy.

And yet, Will note drowsily, there was something inherently not nurse-like about her. Maybe it was her ill-fitting scrubs, or that her gestures were to rehearsed instead of a routine performed all from muscle memory. Or the fact that she seemed to be keeping one eye on the door at all times, not anxious so much as she was cautionary. Watchful.

"Are these really necessary?" Will asked, gritting the question through clenched teeth so as to avoid moving his jaw as much as possible. The nurse, her face obscured from the eyes down by a blue mask, scoffed quietly. It was a sound Will knew, though he couldn't yet place it.

"Word has it you made quite a scene when you arrived. These restraints are here to keep you from exacerbating your injuries."

"A scene?" Will suddenly remembered something he didn't even realise he'd forgotten; dragging Hannibal into the emergency room, both of them on the verge of passing out. He remembered trying to fight almost half a dozen nurses when they insisted on taking Hannibal away from him. It was all one big blank after that.

"I suppose that sounds like me. Where is Ha-he? The man I came in with?"

"Hannibal is alive," the nurse informed him, pulling the mask from her face.

"Chiyoh." Somehow, Will wasn't even surprised to see her. That might have just been the drugs.

"It's been a long time, Will," she said, though not too fondly. "The last time I saw you was through the scope of my rifle, the night Agent Crawford took Hannibal into custody."

She sounded accusatory. Why did she sound so accusatory?

"There's nothing I could have done to prevent that," Will answered in his own defense. "Nothing I wanted to do at the time, quite frankly. And besides, he was the one who gave himself up."

"It's good to see that time has apparently ended your lovers' quarrel." She didn't sound like she thought it was good at all. But she wasn't teasing, either- just a little bitter, apparently. Will thought is a cruel trick of fate that the two of them had so much in common.

"Where is he?"

"In the room next to this one," Chiyoh answered, finishing with the disconnection of Will's IV and beginning to loosen the restraints that held him to the bed.

"Have the police been called?"

"Yes. However, there wasn't much for them to go on- the car you drove here has no plates and is unregistered. They couldn't talk to either of you, as you had both been put under sedation and were in surgery. There are two officers in the waiting room- they intend to interview you once the doctors deem you well enough. It won't take them long to determine your identities once they see you."

That set panic on a direct course through Will's body. The pain in his face and arm flared, and the final clinging remnants of grogginess melted from his system. As he tried to sit up, the full extent of his injuries hit him like a freight train. His ribs seemed to groan with the effort it took to move, the bones of an old house in the midst of a hurricane. He could almost feel the bruises that were sure to have bloomed just beneath his skin. Still, his pain did not deter him from moving as fast as he could. Chiyoh's hand on his shoulder stopped him from standing.

"I _do_ have a plan, Will."

It was subtle, but he could tell she was affronted that he'd doubted her. The levelness of her voice and the near condescension in it was so reminiscent of Hannibal when Will had first met him; Will was a little taken aback to say the least. Still, the adrenaline in his system was beginning to kick in, and he was able to stand without wincing. Mostly.

"Put these on," Chiyoh ordered, dropping a set of light blue scrubs on the bed next to Will. He wasn't quite sure how to do that with the use of only one arm; he didn't even think to ask how she had gotten the scrubs in the first place. He could only manage to get the pants on before Chiyoh left the room, saying nothing as to whether he should follow her or not. She was back before he really needed an explanation anyway.

"Any moment now," she whispered calmly, mostly to herself.

Any moment now arrived in the form of the hospital's fire alarms going off in an explosion of noise and subsequent activity.

"Let's go." Chiyoh left the room again, and this time Will followed her, immediately on guard against every face he saw. No one looked at him- the hallway was a flurry of nurses and doctors and even custodial staff  rushing in all directions, gathering important supplies and beginning the evacuation of all patients on the floor.

As Chiyoh had said, Hannibal was in the room next to Will's. Will hadn't expected Hannibal to be awake, as the injury to his abdomen had been the worst of all the wounds between him. It was still a shock to see Hannibal like this- pale and unconscious and completely vulnerable.

Chiyoh busied herself with Hannibal, unhooking him from the monitors and tending to his IVs, taking the bags of medicine and saline and blood from the hooks above the bed and placing them next to Hannibal's hand. Will looked at that hand for just a moment, at its stillness and pallor, willing it to move or perhaps willing himself to reach out and take it.

There was a loud click as Chiyoh disengaged the brakes on the bed's wheels, and pushed it forward into the hallway. Will watched her go by, though his eyes never left Hannibal's face. When Chiyoh reached him, she pulled a gun from the waistband of her scrub pants and handed it to him. He wanted to point out that he wouldn't be much of a good shot with his left hand, but he was distracted by shouting behind him.

He turned just in time to see the two police officers Chiyoh had mentioned, directing patients and hospital staff toward the exits. Will thought at first that they had seen him, but felt a surge of relief when he realised they were shouting at someone else. At the far end of the hall, he could see smoke curling through a set of double doors.

"I set fire to one of the doctor's lounges." Chiyoh had already started wheeling Hannibal away again, and Will had to jog to catch up. "No one will be hurt- I don't think."

The elevators were shut down as soon as the alarm had gone off, but the ICU was located on the ground floor of the hospital, mercifully close to one of the service entrances around back of the building. The ambulance bay would no doubt be flooding with people, patients waiting to be ferried to other hospitals as well as the fire department, whose sirens Will could hear as soon as he stepped outside. A violent shiver went through him, and he realised he still wasn't wearing a shirt, and his feet were bare. The ground was rough and frozen beneath him, the cold, wet pavement stinging the soles of his feet as he walked.

"Where are we going?"

"As far from here as we possibly can." Chiyoh looked over her shoulder toward the corner of the hospital. Will followed her lead, but saw no one. He was about to ask how they were going to get as far away as they possibly could when he looked ahead again and saw a van, parked at the far end of the alley, and beyond that, an empty street that would lead straight out of town.

When they reached the van, Chiyoh lost none of her efficiency of movement. She motioned for Will to get into the front seat while she pulled Hannibal's hospital bed alongside the van's sliding door. Will didn't get into the front seat right away, and instead stood to watch her as she pulled the bedrail down and away, reaching under Hannibal's arm and lifting him, sliding him the short distance from the bed to the bench seat of the van. Her face contorted as she bore Hannibal's weight, but his face remained placid, even if his breath hitched in his unconscious pain.

Chiyoh laid Hannibal on his back across the bench seat and promptly lifted his hospital gown to check that she hadn't torn his stitches. That's when Will, having just now seen parts of Hannibal had he never seen before, finally opened the door and slid into the front seat. He stared blankly through the wind shield while Chiyoh hung Hannibal's IV bags from the hanger hooks on the ceiling and came around to the driver's side. When she started the van, Will finally looked at her directly, perhaps for the first time since he'd woken up. She looked back.

He wanted to ask her how she found them. He wanted to ask her why she bothered to help them at all.

"Thank-you," he said instead, his eyes falling away from her face as quickly as they'd landed on it.

"Don't thank me," she responded quietly, starting the van and pulling out into the street. "I didn't do this for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally googled coastal counties in Maryland and picked one that was near Baltimore county. I don't know where exactly that Hannibal's cliff house was, and I'm admittedly lazy, so I have no idea if Harford county has a cottage hospital or if my timeline is even plausible but. I'm not gonna lose any sleep over it.


	9. forensic countermeasures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's an old adage about what happens when you assume, Starling. It makes an ass out of you and me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I was feeling motivated and wrote another chapter! Two in two days after months of silence feels WONDERFUL. It's un-edited, so pardon any typos, I'll fix them later. Also, I know now that it was yesterday, but Happy Hannigram Day!

**_Seven Days Post-Fall (Present):_ **

****

**_Thirty minutes outside Baltimore, MD. 11:37 A.M._ **

Starling has always been a quick study- not just in the intellectual sense, but in the literal sense as well. She's already half finished her second read-through of the case files when the SUV pulls off the highway and into Baltimore county proper. Even though she's mostly been skimming (letting the truly important facts jump from the screen and lodge into her memory), it's clear that something is missing from the information that Crawford's given her. That's why, on the second time around, she'd being much more thorough.

"Turn left here," Crawford, in the front seat, says to the agent who's driving. Starling, in the seat directly behind the river, leans forward to speak to Crawford.

"Sir, are we really going to assume that Hannibal Lecter is dead?"

At first, Crawford doesn't appear to have heard her question. She opens her mouth to ask it again, but it's then that he replies.

"There's an old adage about what happens when you _assume_ , Starling. It makes an ass out of you and me."

Starling doesn't know whether or not to laugh. She decides to just keep talking instead.

"I've gone through both Lecter and Graham's personnel files from when they consulted for the BAU. Their psychological evaluations and general descriptions show several differences that I'm having trouble reconciling with their criminal histories, both as individuals and as a pair."

"What differences are those?" Crawford doesn't turn to look at her, keeping his eyes firmly planted on the road ahead.

"Normally when killers- or criminals of any kind- form pairs, there's generally always a dominant personality and a submissive one. Usually the model for these relationships is built on one or both of the perpetrators exhibiting psychopathic tendencies."

"Get to the point, Starling." Crawford's voice is tough but not sharp-edged.

"The psychiatric community has always been at odds over what Hannibal Lecter really is. No one has ever really diagnosed him as a psychopath. They've never been able to- he has several of the characteristics, to be sure, and yet there are parts of his personality and behaviour that are contradictory to the definition of the word. And Will Graham isn't a psychopath at all."

"What is he?" This is familiar to Starling- this is a superior officer putting her through her paces.

"He's an empath. It's in the file, but it's not elaborated on. It's not in the manual that the FBI uses to classify the disorders that offenders are most likely to have, because it's already such a rare personality disorder, and criminal behaviour isn't often a product of it, unless combined with other factors."

"Will is the only person I've ever known with such unrestricted access to the empathetic centers of his brain." Crawford's casual use of Graham's first name lends a tone of regret to his voice that wasn't there before. "That's what made him such a gifted profiler. He can get inside anyone's mind- he can look at a pile of evidence and determine a killer's motive without hesitation. But it's more than that- he can assume anyone else's point of view- their thoughts, their emotions, their behaviours. It's uncontrollable perception."

Starling is beginning to form an image of Will Graham in her mind, opinions attached to the memorised photo that was in his personnel file. She's already seen him through Molly Graham's eyes- Will Graham, the husband and step-father, the man with scars and one too many secrets. She's now catching a glimpse of him through Crawford's eyes- Will Graham, the brilliant profiler and respected colleague. It's a little clearer than the version of Will that Molly had presented, an it's a little unnerving to say the least. Even though they're hunting this man, it's obvious that Crawford has pity for Will, but a sympathetic sort of respect for the burden of Will's gifts.

"Obviously, this made Will a target for all kinds of psychological manipulation," Crawford continues, "namely that of one Hannibal Lecter."

Up until this point, Starling hasn't heard anything from Crawford that wasn't already in the files he'd given her.

"So we're thinking this is a captor bonding situation," Starling supposes. "Stockholm syndrome. Graham could be in a state of dissociative psychosis while his mind tries to shield itself from the trauma Lecter has caused. If Lecter is still alive. If Lecter really is dead, Graham's empathetic disorder could have evolved into some kind of multiple identity-"

"Not quite." Crawford finally turns, lowering his sunglasses to look Starling in the eye. "What I'm going to tell you next isn't in any of those files."

The SUV briefly stops at a crossroads. The metaphorical significance of the moment isn't lost on Starling.

"For Will Graham, the manipulation he went through at the hands of Hannibal Lecter was something of a galvanisation process for his empathy. His empathy had previously left him defenceless, but Hannibal is the one who taught him to use it as a _weapon_. He became Hannibal's equal, despite the differences between their personalities, differences that would normally bring out a dominant and submissive dynamic in a relationship. Where he was once taken in and manipulated, Will has learned to take in and manipulate for the sake of survival. And in the case of Hannibal Lecter, survival has become a catalyst for something much more profound and codependent."

"So the rumors are true." Starling barely even pauses to consider the almost pained look on Crawford's face. "Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are lovers."

"We don't know that for sure." Crawford goes back to looking at the road ahead. "But they certainly know each other, understand each other, better than two people ever have. Imagine what it's like to be known, Starling. To be seen. That's what they're fighting to protect."

The SUV had taken a few more turns and is now driving through what is certainly the fanciest suburb that Starling's ever visited.

"I was there the first time they met. It was me that introduced them to each other." Crawford is apparently talking to himself now, his voice low and heavy. "After that first meeting, Hannibal told me, he said- perception is a tool that's pointed on both ends. Together, that's what they've become."

Starling doesn't know what to say to that, and Crawford has clearly retreated back into the shell of his enigmatic mind. They sit in silence for the rest of the ride.

* * *

**_Baltimore, MD. 12:01 P.M._ **

"They'll be here soon," Will supposes quietly from his place by the front window. He's been standing there for the past hour, occasionally opening the curtain to catch a glimpse of the front steps and the path down to the driveway; when he isn't doing that, he's pacing, as if his footsteps will speed up time or slow it down depending on what he wants. Chiyoh is becoming more than a little annoyed, and, for the first time since they arrived here, wishes that Will would go and be with Hannibal instead of acting the part of the fly, buzzing incessantly about the room, constantly looming in her periphery. She's liable to swat him if he doesn't stop soon.

"You're right. They will be." Chiyoh closes her laptop and sighs quietly. "Perhaps it's time to go next door."

Next door is an empty house. Chiyoh had seen the real estate sign out front and checked the records- the former occupants had moved out last week, and the new occupants won't be handed the keys until the first of the month. The property also has a service road at the back of it that will take them through the forest and out of the area before anyone realises they've left. Chiyoh has already moved the car around and parked it at the head of the road, just in (the likely) case that Will's plan goes awry.

"You're right." Will nods. "Perhaps it's time to go next door."

He's mirroring her speech. She's noticed that he does this when he's nervous, when he's trying to find a way to cope with his loss of control in certain situations. Chiyoh first noticed it in the days after the escaped the hospital, when they were hiding in motel rooms and there was still a chance that Hannibal would not survive. She wonders if Will even notices he's doing it. She wonders if he does it with other people as well, or if it is only her; she is somewhat of a mirror to him, after all. Then again, with the way Will's mind works (or doesn't)- who _isn't_ his mirror?

Will hasn't moved. He's said they should go next door and still his feet are rooted where he stands, train of thought and course of action aborted.

Chiyoh rolls her eyes. "I will tell Hannibal."

Will nods without looking at her and promptly leaves the room. Chiyoh sighs again, for no one's gratification but her own.

* * *

Will lets himself into the empty house by way of the back kitchen door, the lock on which Chiyoh had already picked this morning. It reminds him of the Jacobi house, silent whispers of ghosts that should be here, a family that will never return to haunt the hallways and windows. The family that used to live here, however, is still alive and therefore has already been promised a happier ending than the Jacobis were given. These went on their way and left nothing behind- not a single piece of furniture remains in the house- even the appliances have been packaged up and carted off to their new home.

It's as if the whole place has been wiped down, not a single trace of evidence that anyone has ever cried here or laughed here or loved here. Will wonders if the kitchen cabinets are still covered fingerprints, if there are hairs caught in the shower drain upstairs, any signs of life. The closest thing to proof are the tack-holes in the walls, nearly invisible wounds where once there were hooks, pictures hanging, full of smiling happy people who have no clue what their former home is hiding now.

Will circles the main floor and comes back to the kitchen, skimming his fingertips across marble countertops as he passes through, fingers leaving tracks in the thinnest skim of dust. He stops to wipe the counter clean with the hem of his sleeve; he's never had to worry about leaving his prints in a place before, has never been on the other side of crime scene investigation. Not that this house will be considered a crime scene. Bedelia's house will eventually be, one way or another, but it doesn't matter whose prints they find there- Will and Hannibal and Chiyoh will be too far away to be held accountable for anything that would condemn them. Still, he puts his hands in his pockets and resolves not to touch anything else in the empty house.

It's not that long after that Hannibal enters the house. Will has his back to the door, but he hears it opening, senses it almost before it happens, knows right away that it's Hannibal who standing several feet behind him.

There's a sort of moment that Will is well acquainted with, a moment that almost always happens whenever law enforcement is tasked with notifying the families of homicide victims that their mother, father, sister, brother, son or daughter or husband or wife, is dead. It's the moment in between the family member _asking did they suffer?,_ the second when the question clouds up the air like toxic smoke, everyone on the room holding their breath before the answer comes, the answer that is so often _no_ and so often a lie. For the law enforcement professional, it's a test of their ability to remain objective and detached. For the person asking it's a moment of grief, all five stages at once, of _where am I now?_ and how _did I get here?_

Right now, it's like that; but Will can't determine which one of them is on which side of the question, or what the question even is for that matter. It's just that sick anticipation, knowing that neither one of them wants to lie or be lied to, but neither one of them really knows what to say. So neither of them says anything. Will turns to look at Hannibal from the corner of his eye and recognises the same expression on Hannibal's face that he'd had when Will had first visited him in the asylum, like he couldn't believe he was once again looking at Will's face, like good fortune had found him when he'd thought he'd been abandoned by it. Still, neither of them speaks.

"They've arrived."

This comes from Chiyoh, who is an icy blast of wind all by herself, blowing through the kitchen and toward the front of the house, carrying her rifle case and a duffel bag. Will and Hannibal both follow her to her well-planned vantage point. From the living room window, they can see Bedelia's driveway, partially obstructed by the barren tree branches. It's not much cover, but Will figures that no one's going to be looking up here anyway.

Sure enough, two black SUVs have just parked in the driveway, windows tinted almost darker than the paint. The doors of the first SUV swing open, and Jack Crawford steps out onto the frosted pavement. He looks as large-and-in-charge as he ever has, though Will knows he must be struggling with some of this, being that he was the one who allowed Will to set foot on this path in the first place, the one who sent him right into Hannibal's crosshairs time and again.

Another agent gets out of Jack's SUV, an agent that Will has never seen before. She's young for an FBI Agent, early twenties maybe- average height, slim but not frail- pale skin, pink lips, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Something hits him, an emotion he hasn't felt since he was in Italy, traipsing through chapels and catacombs with no one but his own memories.

"Does she seem familiar to you?" He asks, finally breaking the silence between Hannibal and himself.

"Perhaps. She looks rather young to be an FBI Agent," Hannibal replies.

"I thought the same thing." Will cranes his neck to watch Jack and the girl (who isn't clad in a suit, just dark jeans and a navy-blue FBI windbreaker) approach the house. He feels Hannibal's presence at his side, Hannibal also trying to get a better view.

"A trainee," he surmises- his breath is warm and gentle on the side of Will's face.

"You're right." The wheels in Will's mind are already turning, running through all the plays he knows are in Jack's book, trying to surmise what kind of ploy this is, bringing a trainee on a trip like this. None of the obvious answers seem to fit.

Jack and the girl disappear out of sight, blocked by the side of the house as they reach Bedelia's doorstep.

"The moment of truth," Will whispers.

"This was an unnecessary risk," Chiyoh says over him, perhaps not even hearing what he'd said. "There are too many variables at play here. Doctor Du Maurier has no loyalties to either of you. How do we know she won't tell them everything as soon as she answers the door?"

"We don't," Will tells her. "But my intuition says she'll play along. My intuition hasn't failed me yet."

He looks over his shoulder when he says this, mouth close enough that he's sure Hannibal can taste the words as he speaks them. Hannibal's mouth quirks up at the corner. Will once again appreciates once again their ability to have two conversations at once, saying one thing while meaning another, how it's a language they're both fluent in.

"The two of you should go to the car," Chiyoh all but orders, sliding the window open an inch, setting her rifle case on its side and beginning the assembly of her weapon. "If something does go wrong," which she obviously thinks it will, "I will shoot out their tires so you have more time to escape."

Will thinks that by tires, she probably also means people, but he's not going to nitpick her phrasing when she's this heavily armed.

Hannibal takes the duffel bag, loaded down with their clothes (and more weapons, probably), and he and Will go back the way they came, exiting at the back of the house and walking silently through the snow toward the tree line, where the car is waiting for them.

"About earlier." Will's breath curls outward from his mouth in a small white cloud, an apparition that fades almost immediately. "I'd apologize, but-"

"It's already been forgotten," Hannibal finishes Will's supposition, opening the car door for him. Will gets in and waits, breathing into his hands to bring feeling back into his nose. Hannibal comes around to the driver's side, getting behind the wheel with stiff movements and obvious pain on his face.

"I just-" Will begins, still feeling the need to explain himself- "I didn't think I was the kind of man who could walk away like that, who could just turn his back on a marriage, on a life that he'd built with someone who never deserved any of what I've done to Molly, intentionally or otherwise. But I did walk away, and I can't bring myself to regret it. It took me a second to come to terms with that."

"I would expect nothing less from you, Will." Hannibal reaches over to touch Will's uninjured cheek, slightly pink with the cold. "Your empathy is a gift, as I have often said. You would not be the man I fell in love with if you did not acknowledge how your choices may have affected others."

Just now, Will feels like he did years ago, when he and Hannibal were first planning their great escape, burning books in Hannibal's office, always almost touching, engaged in the early stages of a dance that they are still now choreographing. Although now, part of the dance is Will leaning over and kissing Hannibal softly, something he remembers wanting to do back then, but somehow knowing that the timing simply wasn't right.

He thinks about crime scene investigation again and makes up his mind that from now on, his fingerprints will always be somewhere on Hannibal's body, one way or another.


	10. moment of truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Starling, this is Bedelia Du Maurier, Hannibal Lecter's former therapist."
> 
> That isn't even close to the half of it, but Bedelia digresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been almost a year since I started posting this. It feels like I should have been done by now, but we're not even to the end of act one yet- we're close, though. Also, this fic has surpassed 100 subscriptions, so thanks for that! I can't believe so many people are reading this story!

**_Seven Days Post-Fall:_ **

 

**_Baltimore, MD. 12:06 P.M._ **

The last time Bedelia answered the door to Jack Crawford, she had been higher than the clouds in the sky. Back then, she had done what she'd done to protect Hannibal, but had ultimately given up his location. It's fitting that she be in some similar kind of drug induced-haze now as well. Whether or not she protects Hannibal for any length of time is yet to be seen.

"Hello, Jack." She opens the door just enough to let her shoulder through, leaving half of her face still hidden. She isn't surprised to see that Jack hasn't come alone- she _is_ surprised to see just what kind of person Jack is with.

"Bedelia." Jack smiles warmly his eyes betraying a ferocity that contradicts the rest of his facial expression- he's on the hunt. "It's been a long time."

"Indeed it has," she replies, still looking at the young woman Jack has brought with him. She seems eerily familiar. Jack notices Bedelia's staring.

"Bedelia, let me introduce Agent Clarice Starling. Starling, this is Bedelia Du Maurier, Hannibal Lecter's former therapist."

That isn't even close to the half of it of course, but Bedelia digresses.

"A trainee," she assumes. "Forgive my presumption, but you seem young for an FBI agent. There is also the fact that you aren't dressed like any of your colleagues."

"I'm graduating from the Academy this year," Starling confirms, straightening her spine so she stands as tall as possible. "I'm shadowing Agent Crawford today as part of my training."

"There's no better training than experience," Bedelia agrees, admittedly impressed by Agent Starling's confidence, or at least her unwillingness to succumb to her insecurities.

"I assume you know why we're here." Jack pulls his gloved hands from his coat pockets and crosses them in front of himself; it makes his shoulders seem wider but his demeanour seem friendly. Casual intimidation tactic, one that he's most likely not even aware of. Nonetheless, Bedelia wonders how effective it is on witnesses and suspects. She doesn't have to wonder which one Jack thinks she is.

"You're wondering if I've been in contact with Will Graham."

"Why Will Graham?" Jack asks, foregoing the runaround of sub-textual conversations in favour of getting straight to the point. "Why not Hannibal Lecter?"

"Several media outlets have reported that Hannibal Lecter is dead. Speculation perhaps- Speculation which the FBI has denied to comment on. And yet, there is a press conference scheduled for this afternoon- why else would the FBI be holding a press conference about the issue other than to confirm the rumors?"

 "The death of Hannibal Lecter has not and will not be confirmed this afternoon," answers Jack. "We do know that Will Graham is alive and well, in a manner of speaking. It's interesting to me that you would be aware of this as well, given that the media doesn't even know it yet."

Another intimidation tactic- Bedelia has been through too many ordeals at the hands of men far more intimidating than Jack Crawford for this tactic to have much of an effect on her. The lingering sedatives are also helpful. What she notices most is how fascinated Agent Starling is by this entire exchange, as if she's profiling Jack just as much as she's profiling Bedelia. Bedelia can respect that sort of unbiased curiosity and the fearlessness that comes with it, the desire to know the weaknesses of one's friends as well as one's enemies.

"The truth is, I haven't had contact with any fugitives, dead _or_ alive." Bedelia leans against the doorframe, deliberately keeping her posture relaxed so as to deflect Jack's suspicion. She hopes it doesn't look deliberate.

"We have reason to believe you might be in danger," Jack tells her.

Bedelia almost laughs, barely managing not to let it show on her face.

"I can have agents from out Baltimore office stationed outside your house within the hour if you'd like- or even some of my own team if you'd be more comfortable with that," Jack continues. "We might even be able to arrange to take you into protective custody, if you'd prefer. I obviously can't force you- I know it might be something of a hassle."

 _He's using me as bait_ , Bedelia realises, impressed over again by Jack's intuition, even if it is a few days late.

"I don't believe that will be necessary," she replies, knowing full well that Jack will have her house put under surveillance regardless of what she tells him. "But if I hear from any ghosts, I will be sure to give you a call."

"Thank you for your time, Bedelia. It was good to see you again."

"You as well, Jack." Niceties exchanged through gritted teeth, bared fangs, a pointless sort of civility, clung to for the sake of a last attempt at remaining at least somewhat guarded against each other. Bedelia thought she and Jack would be past this by now, what with all they've been through. Old habits.

"Goodbye," she says, and closes the door.

 

Starling honestly isn't sure what she just witnessed- she is certain that she might never get used to only seeing mere snapshots of Jack Crawford's relationships, being privy to only pieces of a story that is so much longer than she knows.

"What do we do now, sir?" She follows Crawford down the steps, careful not to let herself slip on the ice that has begun to form beneath her feet, the misty rain freezing over as it hits the ground.

"What do _you_ think we should do, Starling?"

"With all due respect, Agent Crawford, I'm just a trainee. Everything I know about profiling is grounded in the Bureau's established behavioural models. Why bring me in on this, knowing that I won't really have that much to offer in the way of out-of-the-box thinking?"

"With all due respect, _Cadet_ Starling, I _don't_ know that. What I _do_ know is that you're an excellent student, which means you're a keen observer and good at adapting to any given situation. What I need isn't out-of-the-box thinking- it's good eyes and good intuition. I know you have that."

Starling pauses, breathing deeply in the biting cold air. "Considering Doctor du Maurier's past personal involvement with Lecter, it's possible she might be lying to us in an attempt to protect him. We could get a warrant for a phone tap and access to her emails, see if she's been communicating with Graham, or Lecter, if Lecter is actually alive. We could even get a search warrant for her home, if that's where they're hiding." The thought that Graham and Lecter might be this close sends a shiver through Starling, and she looks back and the house.

"I appreciate your suspicion, Starling," Crawford says as he opens the SUV door. "It would be the natural assumption based on what you know. You can't be faulted for not knowing that Bedelia never does anything that isn't first and foremost for her own personal gain."

Starling climbs into her seat, already defeated by Crawford's use of the word assumption in direct description of something she suggested.

"Knowing that her motives are self-serving, what would be your next move?" Crawford asks.

"If she thinks that Lecter is alive, or even that Graham has some reason to come after her, she would have told up that she'd been in contact, if only to save herself. Which is why refusing surveillance and protective custody makes no sense."

"We're going to put two agents in an unmarked car across the street," Crawford tells her- it's also something of an order to the agent who is driving their SUV, who immediately gets on his phone to the agents in the other vehicle.

"You think she's lying?" Starling is confused. "But you said-"

"I think she's lying," Crawford confirms. "But I also think that if she's _not_ lying, and we tap her phone and read her emails and search her house, we'll cause a stir and ruin our chances of Lecter and Graham coming after her. So instead of applying for any warrants just yet, we watch her, and we wait."

" _We_ , sir?"

"Metaphorical, Starling. The FBI. The collective 'we'. You and I are going back to Quantico."

The agent driving the SUV starts the engine- it signals another transition, another step, another move in this chess game they're playing Crawford turns to face front, looking as close to excited as she has a feeling he ever has.

"We have a press conference to attend."

* * *

Chiyoh exhales slowly and completely as she watches Crawford's SUV back out of the driveway and disappear around the hedges at the front of the property. She finally moves her eye from the scope of her rifle, refusing to admit (even to herself) that she'd been holding her breath. She has never before allowed herself to be overcome by anxiety, not once in her life- but she found herself shaken, far too invested in the outcome of this situation for her liking. But when the SUVs have finally gone, the curtain of calm that usually covers her begins to descend once again.

Once she is sure that the FBI will not be returning (at least not in the immediate future), she goes quickly through the steps of disassembling her rifle and placing it back into its case; this is a process the further steadies her hand and solidifies her composure. More often than not, she performs this ritual just after she has pulled the trigger, her sight still sharpened by the rush of a kill shot, or at the very least a wounding one. She thinks for a moment, tries to remember, cannot recall the last time she took a life. As disciplined as she is in the art of killing, she feels as if it has been too long. Some part of her is unburdened; some part of her eagerly awaits the day when she may kill again.

She leaves the empty house the same way she entered it, but not before she is certain that everything is undisturbed, identical to the way it was before she arrived here. The back door sticks when she opens it, a defect that reminds her of how this house was once lived in. She thinks of the Lecter castle, her home and her prison for those many years. She remembers the specific creak of specific hinges, the stone floors cold beneath her feet.  the smell of the air, how old and deep and part of her it was. She wonders if she will ever go back there. Some part of her hopes not; some part of her misses it.

She walks carefully across the yard, stepping heavily so as not to slip on the frosty ground. The hill steepens before it evens out, and soon she is in view of the car, parked at the mouth of the service road. It has begun to snow lightly in the last few minutes, flakes falling like dust from the pale grey sky. The air is warmer than it was, but still bitingly cold. The windows of the car have begun to fog around the edges. As Chiyoh draws closer, she sees exactly why.

Hannibal and Will are sat in the front seat- Hannibal in the driver's side, Will in the passenger's side. Or, more accurately, Hannibal is in the driver's side and so is Will. Mostly. Chiyoh has no doubt in her mind that Will would have crawled into Hannibal's lap by now, had he the room to do so. He is leaned over the console, hands on either side of Hannibal's face, kissing him deeply while Hannibal's fingers push through the curls of Will's hair. They are apparently unaware of anything outside of each other. Chiyoh wonders what that must be like, to be part of something so singular, so consuming. Some part of her thinks it must be comforting; some part of her knows it must be a disadvantage and nothing more.

Overall, she finds the duality within herself to be rather unsettling.

She shifts back into the correct mindset, which is to ignore her own inner conflict and determine the next move in this chess game with the FBI. Hannibal and Will should do the same. Chiyoh reminds them of this by tapping on the glass of the driver's side window, allowing herself the small smile of amusement that crosses her lips when Will jumps back, hitting his head on the car ceiling. Hannibal jerks around in surprise, just in time to see Chiyoh's back as she turns and heads toward Bedelia's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, apologies for typos etc.


	11. liminality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liminality is the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of rituals, when participants no longer hold their pre-ritual status but have not yet begun the transition to the status they will hold when the ritual is complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON HANNIBAL SEASON 4: Bedelia is full of shit, so is Jack to some extent and Clarice is probably in over her head. Hannibal and Will continue to be the gayest losers on the planet and Chiyoh is a saint for putting up with it tbh. 
> 
> THIS WEEK ON HANNIBAL SEASON 4: There's another flashback and another sex scene. Some plot stuff happens, it's probably important. Alana Bloom is there and she looks gorgeous (that's not really relevant to the plot stuff but I just thought you should know).

**_Seven Days Post-Fall (Present):_ **

 

**_BALTIMORE, MD. 12:10 P.M._ **

They've barely made it out of Doctor du Maurier's neighbourhood before Crawford reaches for his phone.

Starling, who finds it an almost painfully awkward thing to listen to one half of someone else's conversation, focuses her efforts on tracking the passing landscapes, her eyes running over every house and tree whilst her mind runs over every second of the past five minutes. She knows that there is nothing new to be learned, that her memory is far from perfect even if it is fresh, but she also knows that if she is ever called upon to testify to the specifics of this investigation, it will be useful to have cemented her recollection of such a crucial interview.

As much as her conscious effort is to avoid eavesdropping, she is still aware of Crawford's voice, rising and falling with every topic of conversation, shortening and lengthening as he greets and dismisses multiple people over the course of multiple phone calls. He checks in with Bloom first, seeing to Molly Graham's well being, and then speaks to the FBI public relations people in charge the preparations for the press conference.

He then makes a call to forensics, admonishing someone named Price who has yet to learn anything conclusive from the tire tracks found near the bluff where Lecter and Graham are thought to have plunged from. Crawford's last phone call is to the State Attorney General's office, requesting an immediate hearing to obtain a warrant for surveillance and search of Bedelia du Maurier's property.

By the end of these phone calls, the SUV has made it back onto the interstate; the conversation with Doctor du Maurier has made it into Starling's long-term memory, and Crawford's brow might be permanently furrowed by all of his concentrated frustration.

At first Starling expects Crawford to speak to her, to ask her another question or tell her something else that hasn't been included in the case files she's been given. But as the silence drags on from seconds to minutes, she comes to realise that Crawford is entrenched in his own mind and most likely will be for their remainder of their journey back to Quantico.

Never one for small talk, Starling ignores the SUV's nameless driver and settles back into her seat. Now that she has a moment to herself, one of her earlier trains of thought begins to pick up speed, spitting out dark clouds of smoke and filling her head with an ever approaching rumble.

Starling had thought little to nothing of it, when she'd met Doctor Bloom earlier today and Bloom had looked at Starling as if Starling was familiar. Bloom has no doubt been around many trainees over the course of her relationship with the FBI, and so it was unremarkable for her to perhaps mistake Starling for any other faceless cadet that may have crossed her path. Indeed, Starling had forgotten the look Bloom had given her until Doctor du Maurier had given her a look that was almost identical. Starling found it harder to believe that du Maurier would have had more occasion than Bloom to see so many FBI trainees that they could be mistaken for one another.

Receiving the same look twice might have been nothing- twice could still have been considered a coincidence- but Starling knows that if Crawford has a saying about assumptions, then he probably has a saying about coincidences as well.

The question as to why Starling had been chosen for this task force still burns at the front of Starling's mind, a white-hot flame that can no more be ignored than extinguished. Starling had resolved not to ask Crawford this question as of yet, so as not to incur his wrath and be taken off the task force- but this look she has been given, not by one but now by two different people- this tiny thing, too big to be coincidence but too small to be hard evidence- something told her that it had something to do with Crawford's decision.

Starling hadn't been raised with any pomp, nor ceremony, nor wealth, but she had been raised to have common sense and good manners, and so she doesn't try to pull Crawford from his solitude, to interrupt whatever meditation he might be in the midst of- but she knows that the time for following blindly has passed. When they get back to Quantico, Starling is going to get her answers.

* * *

Will has to admit, this ‘no exertion’ thing is more difficult than he'd thought it would be.

If he's being honest with himself (which he seems to be getting much better at lately), he'd have to admit that he's never been all that needy, or enthusiastic, or uninhibited when it comes to the physical aspect of relationships, except when there's alcohol and ulterior motives involved (see: Margot Verger).

That isn't to say he's never really _wanted_ someone, but for him, wanting people has always been at least somewhat about people wanting him and him being aware of it and therefore obliged to do something about it. Or, it was about wanting because that was the thing to do, because wanting someone and having them meant tethering himself to something stable, something normal- normal being a thing Will had always had to reach for and never been able to hold onto (see: Alana Bloom and Molly Foster).

Wanting people had always been about disproportionately giving, his emotions no longer a renewable resource. Wanting people, even if they wanted him back, still felt a little (or a lot) like being alone.

Then Hannibal happened, and _wanting_ became something selfish, which is how it often is for most people but had never really been for Will. Sure, it became selfish in a way that maybe wasn't stable, definitely wasn't _normal_ \- but with Hannibal, _normal_ suddenly didn't matter.

With Hannibal, Will can want and want and want and never tire, the well inside him never running dry. And he is never alone. Wanting Hannibal is, in a word, intoxicating. He can never have too much, and because of that, it feels like he can never get enough.

Will has come to terms with the fact that he's not yet done realising just how much Hannibal has changed him.

For one thing, he never thought he'd be taking orders from Chiyoh, but here he is. As soon as they'd stepped foot back into Bedelia's house, flushed-faced from the cold and the kissing in the car, Chiyoh had sent them back to the bedroom to be quiet, to rest, and not to get up to anything physically taxing. That last part had been a non-verbal order, but it was implicitly implied by the stone-cold levelling of her eyes on the way Hannibal and Will were literally joined at the hip.

It's not as if Will doesn't understand that Hannibal is still in the early stages of recovery from major, life-threatening injury- it's that he's having trouble remembering, because every time Hannibal touches him he feels like he did that night on the bluff, terrific and invincible and on fire- minus the blood loss. It doesn't help that there's nothing else to do- they're just playing a waiting game now, at least for a few hours. The FBI press conference is the only way to gain insight into Jack's gambit, and that's not happening for another four hours, give or take.

Will and Hannibal have ended up on their backs, each of them taking up one half of the bed, the only thing separating them being about six inches of mattress. And they're not separated, not really- their hands are joined, palms sealed and fingers laced, Will's thumb slowly stroking across Hannibal's knuckles, constant like the tide.

Hannibal- in keeping with the behaviour of a middle-aged man on painkillers- is asleep, prompting Will to remember last night when Hannibal woke up afraid, in a state Will had never seen him before. He hadn't needed to know before, what kind of things haunted Hannibal's dreams- or at least he hadn't wanted to. Maybe he hadn't been bored enough to give it this much thought. Whatever it is, he can imagine it must be bad, if it's bad enough to scare Hannibal Lecter.

Abruptly, he realises he's thinking like an outsider, like someone who knows Hannibal only by reputation and not by sight, by sound, by smell. He is inexplicably drawn to thoughts of Jack's trainee, and he wonders what she's been told. He wonders what she thinks of him. He wonders why he cares.

* * *

**_Three Days Post-Fall (Past):_ **

 

**_SOMEWHERE ON THE MARYLAND COAST, 9:24 A.M._ **

Jack Crawford stood motionless at the end of the blood trail, knees locked and arms by his sides as he leaned gingerly out over the bluff's edge, unable to see the rocks through the curling fog that rose in rolling waves up off the shore. The clouds were dense and low this morning, too, making it misty in all directions. He had thought it was too cold for fog, especially this early in the morning. Metaphorically, the low visibility was a perfect fit, being that he still had no real idea what he was dealing with here.

The coast guard had sent teams out at first light, dragging the shallows to the North and the South of the crime scene. They also had look out boats patrolling the deeper waters. None of them had found anything so far. Somehow, Jack had a hunch they weren't going to.

Straightening his spine and stepping back from the precipice, Jack cast an eye over his shoulder and the blackened pool of blood spread out across the hardened ground toward the house. There were half a dozen forensic techs stepping lightly all around it, a strange waltz to avoid ruining their boots and contaminating the evidence. They were lucky it hadn't rained in the last few days, or they wouldn't have been much evidence to contaminate.

"Jimmy, Zee, what do we have?" They'd all been here since before dawn, what felt like eight hours but was really only more like three and a half. Jack knew that three and a half hours was plenty of time to have refrained from asking questions. He still wasn't clear with himself on whether he'd been actively avoiding the answers or not.

"Francis Dolarhyde, aged forty-three, resident of Missouri. Also known as the Tooth Fairy, also _also_ known as the Great Red Dragon," Zeller replied. "Obviously," he added, before Price could hit him with his infamous _tell me something I don't know_ face.

"The blood's not all his," Zeller continued. "Whoever killed him-" a pointed look at Jack, who felt the acuteness of Will's absence, not for the first time this morning. "Whoever killed him didn't escape uninjured."

" _I'd_ say," Price chimed in. "The back window of the house is broken- somebody shot through it. There's a pooling stain on the floor inside, which says that the shot hit someone- there's also splatter indicating a secondary altercation wherein someone else got injured. I'm willing to bet the Dolarhyde had the gun, which means that either Lecter or Graham was shot, and then whichever one of them wasn't shot was then stabbed, probably in the face, neck, or shoulder based on the height and trajectory of the blood spatter."

"But neither of them were incapacitated," Zeller pointed out. "Because whoever got shot managed to pull Dolarhyde off of whoever got stabbed, and then both of them succeeded in doing this." He gestures to the pale and bloating corpse at his feet. "Dolarhyde has multiple lacerations, probably would have contusions galore if he had any blood left in him. Someone took a big bite out of his throat-"

"My money's on Lecter," Price quipped.

"No one's betting against you on that one, dude." Zeller made a disgusted face at the body, like he'd just realised he'd been looking right at it for too long.

Jack rolled his eyes. "What happened after that?"

"They jumped, as far as we can figure," Price stated bluntly, in a way Jack might have expected from Zeller.

"Jumped, or fell?" he asked.

"Does it matter?" Zeller mumbled. Jack and Price both glared.

"In my professional opinion, they jumped." Price handed his camera off to one of the other techs and tiptoed around the blood to where Jack was standing. "They'd have been about here, and if they'd slipped, they might not have gone over at all, or if they had they'd have hit the rocks and the water wouldn't have dragged them off. There's no way they would have survived, and we'd have found the bodies by now."

"If they jumped, or at least fell on _purpose_ , they'd have pushed off from the edge far enough for them to land in the water. They'd still be dead, but the bodies might have been carried off, which is why we haven't found them."

"Okay, so. Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham, missing and presumed dead." Jack was already writing press releases in his head, but he couldn't shake his gut feeling. "On the off chance that they _did_ survive-"

"They survived," Zeller argued. Both Jack and Price turned to look at him in unison, as did everyone else within earshot. "We're at kind of an inlet here, which means if they hit the water and died, they would have been spit right back up on shore. And since there are no bodies, and the coast guard hasn't found jack shit anywhere else-" Zeller paused when Jack quirked an eyebrow.

"They survived, and they've come back inland," Jack finished, content to agree as always with whichever opinion supported his own. "We need to get people in these woods, up and down the coast, looking for blood, footprints, tire tracks, anything."

"They could be on a boat, if they're even alive. _Which I doubt_ ," Price said to no one in particular.

"If they'd got on a boat, they'd be long gone by now." Jack shoved his hands in his pockets. "They'll have been in Mexico since yesterday. But the only way to know for sure is to look everywhere else."

"Start calling motels and hospitals within a two hour drive of this place," Jack ordered, striding back toward the house. "If they _are_ alive, they'll be in bad shape, and they'll have to have stopped somewhere. I want to talk to anyone who can tell me their exact physical condition. Make it happen people."

"Where are you going?" Price asked, voice getting caught up in a sudden gust of wind that began to dispel the fog.

"I have to go talk to Will's wife," Jack hollered over his shoulder.

"And tell her what?" Zeller wondered. "We don't know anything yet!"

"Well then," Jack responded. "You'd better have something for me by the time I get back to Quantico."

* * *

**_Seven Days Post-Fall (Present):_ **

 

**_BALTIMORE, MD, 2:16 P.M._ **

At this moment, Hannibal cannot honestly say if he is awake or not. He knows that he is breathing, but only because it hurts to do so- every muscle in his chest aches and fights against even the slightest movement.

His lungs, he realises, are filling with water, every breath an airless one, more laboured than the one before it. His last mouthfuls of precious oxygen are forced out of him as he descends into the briny depths, the push of the undertow weighing heavier upon his shoulders with every passing moment. He looks up, eyes burning a he strains to catch a glimpse of any light from the surface before he is

Grabbed beneath the arms, invisible hands hoisting him out of the darkness until he is standing in the shallows, coughing and gasping and miraculously alive.

“Hannibal.” He turns at the sound of his name and finds Will, an image well-worn in his imagination, seen often in dreams of a softer nature- only this time, Will is a wondrous sight to behold, a fright of bare skin bathed in black blood and moonlight, silver in his eyes and on the waters as they crest around his knees. Will’s smile is ferocious and full of nameless desire. Hannibal opens his mouth to speak but Will is already

Crashing into him, biting Hannibal’s lips and licking into his mouth and grasping at his body, slick hands on slicker skin, blood within him warmed even beneath the cold spray of the Atlantic.

Hannibal knows now that he must be dreaming, as he claws at Will’s back but does not break the skin there, as the tide rises up to engulf them both even as they stand unmoved by it.

Hannibal wakes from the dream knowing this is his to have but not knowing for how much longer he will have it. Will is leaning over him, eyes wide, breath held in his chest.

“Will,” Hannibal observes, mouth dry, though in his mind he was drowning just moments ago. He feels a warm weight in his hand and realises he is holding on tightly to Will’s wrist- a pattern is beginning to emerge.

“You scared me.” Will had just been dozing off when Hannibal’s cold fingers had closed around his arm, jarring him awake. His face hurts from sitting up too fast- so does his shoulder. “Do you usually grab people when you're having a nightmare?”

“There are not usually people around to be grabbed,” Hannibal responds, adjusting the pillows beneath his head. “And when there are, I am not in the practise of reaching out for them.” Just the opposite, in fact. “It would seem that my unconscious mind has developed a preference for you, as have my hands. And it wasn't a nightmare this time.”

“No?” Will watches steadily as Hannibal leans up on his elbows, face only inches away. Will’s bruised back begins to complain. He ignores it.

“Not a nightmare.” They're nose to nose now, mouths on a collision course. The air is thick and Will has to swallow hard around it at the low timbre of Hannibal’s voice. “Something else.”

Will might never know who kissed who first, and it really doesn't matter- they've been kissing for hours now anyway, or that's what it feels like. Hannibal’s mouth is warm and pliant but not entirely yielding- one of his hands lifts to hold Will’s injured cheek, to keep Will still as Hannibal presses his tongue to the seam of Will’s lips, as he tilts his head to kiss Will harder, deeper than before. Will reaches out to touch him back, draping his arm over Hannibal’s body and holding onto the curve of Hannibal’s hip.

“A preference, huh?” At first, Will isn't sure that he's even said it out loud, if he even has the self control to stop kissing Hannibal long enough for either of them to speak. Hannibal smiles and Will can feel it everywhere.

“A very strong preference, it would seem.”

Will’s mouth splits into a grin- his eyes fall and his fingers pull idly at the bottom of Hannibal’s shirt. It’s as endearing as it is surprising, that Will still reacts to compliments this way, that he has any of that bashfulness left in him. This is the man that Hannibal fell in love with- unassuming and unsure, softer skin and fewer scars, a man who always smelled of dander and woodsmoke and that unfortunate aftershave and a fever - a fever that burned through him in more ways than one. To catch a glimpse of him now is thrilling in a way Hannibal doesn’t remember ever having experienced.

He’d promised himself a long time ago that he would have Will Graham. He’d promised himself just as quickly that once he had Will, he’d never let anything take Will away from him. He has made this promise to Will, as well. And now all he has to do is keep it.

"Where would you like to go, Will, when all of this is over?"

"Are we speaking metaphorically here, or are we actually making plans?"

In a feat of strength surprising for an injured man, Will pushes himself up and swings a leg over Hannibal, straddling him on hands and knees and looking down at him with a smug sort of satisfaction which becomes him _immensely_.

"When," Hannibal asks coquettishly, "have we ever spoken metaphorically about anything?"

Will laughs, the sound of it abrupt and chest-deep, and he is once again the man Hannibal first knew, no more trusting of others than he was of his own mind, if he could be convinced to trust at all. Still more dangerous than anyone could have known. Anyone except for Hannibal. He is that man, lit from the left in a horrible Minnesota motel room, not finding Hannibal that interesting, but nevertheless amused when Hannibal compares him to fine china.

_How do you see me, Doctor?_

_As the mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by._

Will had proved Hannibal wrong, at first. He had played the wounded animal, dangerous not by his power but by his wariness, his relentless determination to survive. He had licked his wounds in prison and realised his desire for the hunt- Will had almost had Hannibal, too, but not before Hannibal had gotten his claws deep into Will's flesh.

_You think you could change me, the way that I've changed you?_

But not before Will had gotten his claws deep into Hannibal as well.

_I already have._

And now, Will is every inch the predator that Hannibal had believed him to be.

"When I was a kid," Will says, sitting back on his heels, rolling his injured shoulder and wincing, "we moved around a lot. One of the places we lived was a shitty two-room apartment over a corner store. The store was owned and run by this half-blind Creole woman who smoked five packs of cigarettes day and barely spoke, and even then it was almost never in English. I spent the whole summer between sixth and seventh grade in that store while my dad worked double shifts at the machine shop down the block. I learned Creole French and read dog-eared comic books and ate my weight in stolen candy bars.”

“All I really remember now about that store is the rack of ancient, faded postcards on the counter next to the register. Mostly the postcards were just pictures of places in the States, like Mount Rushmore or the Grand Canyon or the Las Vegas strip or the New York City skyline. But there was one other one that was just a picture of a beach, snow-white sand and water that was clearer than glass, the kind of blue that's also somehow green, stretching out toward the horizon. It was otherworldly, even if it was just a picture. The only thing written on it was _Argentina_ at the bottom in white block letters.”

“I'd never seen a globe before, so I had no idea where Argentina was or if it was even real, but I took that postcard when I left at the end of that summer and I carried it with me until my junior year in high school when I realised that even if that beach in Argentina _was_ real, I had about as much chance of getting there as I did of winning the lottery."

And here is Will now, changed and still changing in front of Hannibal's eyes.

"Months in my office." He smirks. "And that's the most you've ever said about your childhood."

"To be fair, there was a lot going on with me during the months I was in your office." Will is smirking too, his voice dark but his eyes playful. "Most of it your fault."

"How much of that story was real?" There isn't a need for pretense between them anymore, no need for subtlety when directing the conversation- it's an exhilarating change of pace.

Will shakes his head, but his mouth is still pulled up at the corner. "All of it but the last part, which was really just an exaggeration. It's not like I thought I'd never travel. I just didn't have a lot of ambition, generally, or the confidence to back it up. I didn't think I was interesting or remarkable or good for anything other than physical labour. My father didn't do me any favours in that department."

"Abuse, or simply a lack of compassion?"

Will shrugs and winces again. "More like a lack of basic comprehension. I was a hormonal teenage empath, and he wasn't big on talking things through or talking about much in general. Not a great combination. He taught me everything there is to know about boat motors and fly fishing, but he never taught me how to know myself, let alone _like_ myself."

"My father died when I was eight years old," Hannibal says. "My mother and sister as well. They were murdered right in front of me."

Will appraises Hannibal for a moment. "Well, _that_ definitely explains a lot."

Hannibal is the one to laugh this time. It sets Will off again and Hannibal is lost, overwhelmed, reminded of his dream, swept away and drowned by a mounting wave, this time made of an affection so familiar that he knows he should be used to it by now.

"Argentina, then."

"Really?" Will sobers. "Just because I wanted to go there when I was twelve?"

"Because you _wanted_ ," Hannibal clarifies. "When is the last time you received something simply because you wanted it?"

"I think the question you should be asking is 'when is the last time you _wanted_ something simply because you wanted it?'" Will takes Hannibal's hand. "It's been a long time."

"Tell me," Hannibal whispers. "What is it that you want?"

"You," Will replies simply. "Argentina. Mostly you. I would have thought that was obvious at this point."

"Perhaps I enjoy hearing you say it."

People are always changing, Hannibal supposes, their minds in a constant state of flux. Even after death, the body decays, flesh and blood and bone going to ash and earth and dust.

"It's a good thing I enjoy saying it, then."

Will kisses him again, a gentle and reverent thing; even so, it is enough to send Hannibal's heart racing, heat beginning to build in his gut when Will moves, however slightly, against him. The intent behind Will’s movements becomes unmistakable a moment later when he slides back and reaches for the button of Hannibal’s trousers.

“Will.” Hannibal is reluctant to let this moment end, but he stops Will anyway. “We can’t.”

“We _can_ ,” Will protests, gentle but unyielding. “We abso _lutely_ can.”

Hannibal can’t help but smile at Will’s eagerness, at his enthusiasm, at his downright determination. “We _shouldn’t_.”

“According to Chiyoh. But she’s not here, and I’m pretty sure neither of us really want to think about her right now.” Will’s hands may have stopped moving, but they are still there, warm and real on Hannibal’s body.

“That may be true, but she-”

“-doesn’t have to know.” Will follows up on his interruption with another kiss, this one slow and almost sloppy and so sweet that Hannibal can almost feel his teeth start to ache.

“Chiyoh is very observant.” He is only arguing for the sake of arguing now, not for the sake of any cause or conviction he may have. The only thing he feels convicted about doing is kissing Will again, which he does.

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop.” Will’s hands are moving once again, slowly, almost torturously so, working Hannibal’s trousers open, knuckles brushing against the shape of Hannibal’s hardening cock.

Hannibal hadn’t come earlier- on his knees, basking in the beauty of Will’s ecstasy, he had felt an emotional release that had rivaled any physical one he could have achieved in that moment. The arousal he’d felt had subsided and receded within him, remaining there like a perpetual harmonic cluster humming on in the back of his mind. But the heat he felt then has returned full force now, a storm of almost desperate arousal that no doubt shows on his face.

“Hannibal,” Will is saying, his voice no louder than the sound of a zipper being undone, than the whisper of Will’s hands as he pulls at Hannibal’s clothing. “Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” Hannibal barely gets the word out, nearly chokes on it. “Never.”

“Hm,” Will smiles, all mischief and self-satisfaction, and licks a stripe across the palm of his hand. “That’s what I thought.”

There is a sudden split second of pure thoughtlessness on Hannibal’s part, his mind momentarily wiped clean when Will draws him out and takes him in hand with slow, firm strokes that set him adrift in the vast ocean of his own mind, unable to control which direction the wind takes him.

“Hannibal,” Will says, a hand at Hannibal’s face. “Don't get lost. I need you here. Look at me.”

Hannibal hadn’t even realised his eyes were closed. He opens them, immediately overwhelmed by the look on Will’s face.

“There you are.” Will’s eyes are hungry, pupils wide and dark, gaze narrowed in focus. His mouth is tugged upward at one corner, pushing a dimple into his uninjured cheek. His hand moves faster around Hannibal’s cock, thumb sliding over the head of it with every move, pulling his foreskin back and and teasing at the more sensitive skin beneath it.

Hannibal shudders and sucks in a breath. Will keeps talking.

“I used to imagine you like this,” he admits, “back at the beginning of all of it. You were always so buttoned up, so put-together, and it was so _frustrating_ . I used to sit there in your office and look at you and wonder what you'd be like; how you'd look, how you'd sound, how you'd _taste_.”

Hannibal grips Will’s thighs, fingers grasping hard enough to leave bruises through his slacks. He tries to speak, to ask Will if reality has lived up to his imagination, to tell Will how close he is, so, so close. All that leaves his mouth is a low and strangled sound, the sound a man might make when his soul is about to leave his body.

“I could never quite decide what I honestly thought you'd be like,” Will continues. “But I thought about it a _lot_. Honestly, part of me will probably always be surprised that it took me this long to find out.”

“You could have had me, then,” Hannibal, by some miracle, manages to say, all the while teetering on the edge of release. “You could have, from the very beginning.”

“I know,” Will answers, softly, and Hannibal feels himself let go. “But good things are always worth the wait.”

Hannibal comes, consumed by Will’s words and his touch and even his presence alone. His body tenses, hips willing themselves to thrust into Will’s hand, though his legs are pinned down. The stitches in his side pull, but the pain is no match for the intensity of his pleasure. He groans and gasps and groans again, feeling tears well at the corners of his eyes. He reaches up to wipe them away, but Will beats him to it, his simple touch nearly overwhelming. He can still hardly breathe, all the air punched out of his lungs.

“Beautiful,” Will observes, so quietly that Hannibal doesn't think he was meant to hear it. He feels heavy and yet light- sated and tired. His eyes fall closed again, and he sees white sands and crystal waters and bright, warm skies.

Will lifts Hannibal’s shirt to check that his stitches are still in place and breathes a slight sigh of relief when he sees that they are. When he glances up and sees Hannibal’s eyes close, he asks,

“Where are you?”

“Argentina,” Hannibal answers, and drifts.

* * *

 

**_BAU OFFICES, FBI HEADQUARTERS, QUANTICO, VA. 2:25 P.M._ **

When they arrive back at Quantico, it quickly becomes apparent that Starling's conversation with Crawford about his decision making process will have to wait. Starling follows Crawford at a brisk pace through the parking garage, pausing for a moment in the elevator before following him at an even brisker pace through the halls to the same conference room where they'd left Doctor Bloom and Molly Graham waiting over two hours ago, along with a woman Starling has never seen before.

"Jack," Bloom greets, sparing Starling the shortest of glances. "Did you find anything in Baltimore?"

"Nothing that’ll hold up in court," Crawford retorts, turning to the nameless agent who had been driving the SUV. Starling hadn't realised he was still here. "Hanson. Wait in the hallway. Don't let anyone through those doors."

No longer nameless Agent Hanson nods and steps outside.

"Molly, how are you doing?" Crawford steps out of the role of superior and into the role of counsellor with a startling and seamless ease; Bloom is the only one who doesn't seem surprised by it. It's a powerful thing, this ability to transition so quickly into whatever he needs to be to best manage a situation. Starling can't be sure Crawford hasn't already used this ability on her in the few hours that she's known him. She remembers Ardelia's voice from this morning, the _no, he's worse_ , how Ardelia had meant it as a joke. Now Starling isn't so sure.

Molly doesn't answer, but bloom does, warily eyeing Crawford as one would eye a large animal that could charge at any moment. "She's fine, Jack- as fine as she can be, given the situation."

"Agent Crawford," says the unknown woman. "My name is Helena Garrett, I'm with the public relations division. We've drafted the press releases for both you and Mrs. Graham." She gestures to the conference table, where a sheet of paper sits. "This is your statement."

Bloom, who is closer to Crawford than Garrett is, picks up the sheet of paper and holds it out to him.

Starling has never seen anyone hand Crawford anything before. Watching the way someone takes something when it's offered to them is an excellent way to understand the power dynamic between two people. Often the body language of the giver will be supplicant, and the receiver will be dominant. That's especially what Starling thought she'd see here, but what she gets is the opposite.

Crawford looks at the paper in Bloom's hand and then reaches out, extending his arm farther than Bloom has, before taking the paper gently from her hand rather than snatching it as Starling expected him too. She wonders if Crawford is like this with many people, or if Bloom is the only one who's ever acted like his equal (or better) and lived to continue doing it. She wonders if Crawford puts up with it out of respect or pity or just dogged resignation.

"Your statement will be simple, sympathetic-" Garrett explains- "we want to reassure people that Francis Dolarhyde is no longer a threat to public safety, and neither is Will Graham. The FBI's official position on Hannibal Lecter is that he's dead. Period. The official position on Will Graham is that he is alive but injured, and therefore is not considered dangerous. The aim is to encourage people to report sightings so that the FBI can bring him in safely."

"Obviously we want to minimize blowback in the wake of certain press organizations’ claims that Graham, a man in the employ of the FBI, is or was willingly allied with Lecter in any way. We just want him to come home. That's the story you're going to set up, and that's the story Mrs. Graham will tell."

"I know I don't need to lecture you on sticking to the official statement,” she tells Crawford. “Lord knows this isn't your first rodeo. Just read the sheet and we won't have a problem."

Once again, someone is acting like they have any real control over Crawford's actions. Starling has heard from every teacher at the academy that PR people like to act like they're in charge and that it's best just to let them, so when Crawford nods along to everything Garrett says, Starling isn't too shaken by it.

“Agent Crawford,” Garrett prompts. “Do I have assurance of your cooperation?”

Crawford isn’t paying attention. Starling can see his mind slipping further and further back into itself with every slide of his eyes across the page. This is what shakes her, the undeniable evidence that she has reason to question her previously unquestionable confidence in Crawford’s state of mind. Or maybe she’s been questioning it this whole time, and she’s only just found a way to justify it to herself.

“Jack.” Bloom has clearly seen this before, and she doesn't seem at all phased by it. Of course, it’s no secret to Starling that right now, Bloom doesn’t have much confidence in Crawford to be questioned in the first place.

“Yes, good, fine.” Crawford’s voice is less and less convincing with every word; he sounds thin, worn out, weighed down. Garrett and Molly apparently don’t know him well enough to notice it. Bloom doesn’t have reason to be surprised or is choosing to ignore the shift or both. Starling isn’t about to bring attention to it- there’s no advantage in doing so. Not right now.

“Good. Then we’re done here.” This from Garret to Crawford, and then to Molly, “I’ll be back in an hour to bring you down to the press room.”

Garrett is all clicking heels and polite smiles as she glides from the room. Starling sees both Crawford and Bloom’s shoulders fall with audible sighs of relief, their postures finally softening now that the perceived threat has abated.

“Thank God that’s over.” Crawford tosses the sheet of paper in the direction of the table. It dances and drifts through the air, suspended for a second before settling down on the veneer tabletop.

“For now,” Bloom answers wryly. Their dislike of public relations officials seems to be the only thing they have in common, besides a personal history with Lecter and Graham. Starling doesn’t know the whole of that part, though.

“Never forget, Starling-” Crawford takes a seat as he says this- “It’s a universal constant that PR people will smile to your face while they put a knife in your back. The only universal constant there is. Quick to support you so long as it suits them. As soon as you slip up, they’ll can your reputation in a second just to cover the Bureau’s ass.”

“It’s because they make more money than the rest of you.” Bloom sits as well. “Or they make more money because of it.”

“It’s because they’re _lawyers_.” Molly hasn’t spoken this whole time until now, but Starling hasn’t forgotten her presence, plain face guarded and wide eyes watching. It doesn’t seem like she’s getting ready to bolt, nor like she can’t believe the reality of her situation. It’s more like she’s waiting for something. Starling wants to ask her what that thing is, but she isn’t sure if she knows how.

“A rose by any other name,” Bloom quips.

There's a knock on the conference room door. Crawford sighs and shakes his head.

"Hanson!"

Hanson sticks his head in the door, clearly preparing himself for Crawford's potentially volatile response to the interruption.

"Sir, that was Zeller and Price. They think they've found the hospital."

"They _think_?" Crawford asks, as incredulous as he gets, if the look on Bloom's face is anything to go by. Even Starling knows it was a bad way for Hanson to phrase it.

"Are they still there?" Crawford cranes his neck to see past Hanson. "Zeller, Price, get in here!"

Two men Starling has never seen before push past Hanson and into the room. To Starling they appear haggard, faces gaunt and eyes defined by the dark circles beneath them. Even the wood panelling of the conference room and the warm orangey light doesn't do anything to help how exhausted they look.

"What's this about you two _thinking_?" Crawford demands, getting to his feet where he is at his most imposing.

"We can't be sure it's the right place," says the taller and younger of the two. He has a beard that has clearly been ignored for several days and therefore makes him look like one of the farmers in the strange, postcard memories of Starling's West Virginian upbringing. "But it _is_ the last place on the list, and get this-"

"There was a fire," the other man cuts him off, gesturing with what looks to be a folded up road map. "At the hospital. The ER records were destroyed and the phones were down, which is why we couldn't get in contact with them until now."

"And why should I care about you finally getting ahold of them?"

"It's the closest hospital to the crime scene," says the farmer. "And the fire happened the night after Dolarhyde was killed."

The wheels in Crawford's head have started turning- Starling can practically hear them whirring away. He points at the map in the second man's hand. "Price- where is this hospital?"

"Harford County, Maryland. It's near Bel Air, I think." The man who must be Price unfolds the map and begins to squint at it.

"Closer to Aberdeen," corrects the other, who must be Zeller by default. "Either way, it's a three hour drive."

"Then I'd better get going," Crawford supposes. "Hanson!" He barks. Hanson appears in the doorway almost immediately. "You're with me. Price, text me directions. Zeller, get back on the phone with the hospital. I want every staff member who was working that night- doctors, nurses, the janitors even- waiting for me when I get there."

Zeller and Price leave in a way Starling can only describe as scuttling. Hanson hangs back in the doorway, waiting for Crawford, who rounds on Bloom.

"Alana, you can handle the press conference. Don't say anything about the hospital lead- we don't want to give it away that we think they might both still be alive."

"Jack, I don't think it's advisable for me to be the face of this. I'm not technically a Bureau employee, let alone a public relations expert. And if Will watches the press conference- if Hannibal _is_ actually alive and _he_ watches the press conference-"

"Oh, I'm counting on it." Crawford is halfway to the door, half way across the room from where Bloom is standing, but he lowers his voice like he and Bloom are the only ones here. "As long as you're here, you're not in danger. Besides- you telling me you wouldn't risk your own safety to put an end to this thing?"

"Maybe. But I wouldn't risk the safety of my wife and child, no." Bloom is something else, justifiably vindictive whilst maintaining the iciest composure. It makes Starling's heart beat a little faster, and she blinks to keep herself from staring. Bloom is all at once the kind of woman Starling may have had a crush on when she was younger and the woman Starling sometimes wishes she could be, late at night when she feels like everyone else in the world has gone to sleep.

"And for the record, Jack," Bloom says, entreating or educating or maybe both. "You're an idiot if you think there's more than one way to put an end to this thing."

"Duly noted." Crawford inclines his head for Starling to follow him, and she does, just past the threshold until he puts a hand up to stop her.

"It's a six hour round trip at least, not counting the interviews I'll be conducting. I'm not going to be back until later tonight, and I need someone here to be my eyes and ears at this press conference."

"But sir-" if there's ever been a perfect time to ask _why me_ , Starling knows that it's now.

"And after the press conference is over, I want you to man one of the phones on the tip line. It'll help you learn how to weed out crank calls, how to record and process information based on a short discussion with someone- it's good training for profilers."

Starling doesn't understand why Crawford is suddenly making this about the teaching opportunity, when he hasn't mentioned that angle once since this morning, and she tells him so.

"Why did you choose me for this task force, sir? Trainees are never given this much access to high profile cases- you asking me to man the tip line is the only trainee-appropriate task you've given me all day."

Crawford just smiles at her. There is something alight in his eyes, something like Starling used to see as a child in the eyes of her father's old blood hound, in the split second between when it caught the scent of something and the moment when it broke out into a full-tilt chase.

"Good job, Agent Starling. You're finally asking the right questions. I’ll be back tonight. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

She doesn't have a clue what to make of that. By the time she's able to summon the words to reply, Crawford is already gone.

Even with the answers to her questions still evading her, and the swarming uncertainty concerning the next few hours, Starling cannot help but feel as though things have progressed somehow, that the simple act of finding out that someone might know something has broken the case, even though the case hasn't actually been broken. The case is break _ing_. It is a remarkable feeling- one so seldom recognises the fleeting moments wherein one is caught within a liminal space. There is nothing left to do now but wait to come out of the ritual, changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Moses, it's been a while (that's the understatement of the year). This is the longest chapter so far- I hope it was worth the wait!


End file.
